Opiate balloon and blanket bliss, floating in a bubble on a high
pitch black sky, and from here I am
counting city lights. Why
do our chests ache like some placid ballad?
Why is it the corners of our mouths
instead of bedsheets, these days,
that we pin up?
Today is close to being a chronicle
of yesterdays, not all, but almost .
I cut the wire that makes me spin up
from my ankles as I travel
so when the music box opens
all the lights drop,
extinguished and I unravel
doing a copper-footed dance to the sounds
of pennies dropping and spinning their final rounds.
