There's a cabinet somewhere,
Stocked full of happiness—

Jars of sugar to make the bitter
Truth less harsh. This cabinet

Contains paper—recipes on how
To make a smile appear,

But it may fade later like the old ink.

This cabinet

Has mental canisters cradling
Candy but it may leave you with

A mouthful of holes.

There's a crackle in my chest

When I breathe.

You have no cure—no one does,

Just the connectivity of

The earth will do—since this is

Not a sickness that can be fought

With anything prescribed,

Only eased—calmed for a while.

I stretch my arms up skyward

To give myself away,

But it's not yet time.

I am kept in a bottle,

A glass vial,
Within an unbroken void.

You may be too.

We are cast out—floating
Amongst Saturn's rings,

Encased in glass
Meant to keep our
Fragments from colliding.

Maybe they should,
Collide that is, and burst

Just like stars

But instead of dying,
We bring forth galaxies,

All starting from sealed
Bottles they thought

We could never open.

I am a visitor within myself.

Am I even real? Do I know what
My skin really feels like? What
It's like to stare into my own eyes—

Are they even mine? Or a loan
That I will give back one day
And the earth will gladly place
Them with the other returns.

Will our dust mix in the soil with
The worms? Will we learn from
Each other then, when we have
Infinity to understand one another
Because there's nothing left to do.

A body is a shield that rips apart
And mixes with the hourglass sand;
Pouring into the bottom we may be
Trapped in—or will we escape,
And become one with the stars that
Live and die too?

Will we have a chance to come back,
To experience the battered sorrow
Of existence once more—seeing if we
Can know love and get to find who
We are?

Will I feel whole within my
Skin the next time around before
It's too late again?

Maybe I can feel that now.

Trapped in a birdhouse
With one way in and one
Way out.
Destined to return and
Make it home.
Unpainted wood walls,
The smell of sawdust.
Twigs and dead leaves
Line the bottom but
Will it be warm enough?
Nails rusting as the roof
Splits—swollen cedar;
Mold moves in, fallen
Feathers join the nest.

I am an ant in a needle eye.
A spot taken, oh so small,
But filled with my eternity.
A passage blocked
By my being—content
With feeling whole.
A nook to fit daydreams;
Not grains of nightmares.
Insignificance unattached
From a speck worth a world.

Cat eye like an orange,
Squeezed—pulp dripping
With lives unseen
By human sight; unable
To know
Where the fruitful cat
May go.