My head rolls down the crook of my arm
My mind spins backwards to where my eyes want to be
I’m staring at the ceiling now
I’m falling now

There’s wind in my ears
Everything is being hand-drawn
These pictures are day dreams

I wince at the apple in my hand
I don’t care what the first fruit was
But I know what my fruits should be
And my labor of love is cherry-picking as many watermelons as I can carry

My hair is three feet in front of my vision
And a second behind in hang-time
It’s grayer now
Pencil drawings look more like ink now
Etchings in a clay tablet

Writing messages on my ribs since I was born
You just run out of space
And there’s a fist-sized hole where my sternum should be

Closed for maintenance
Easy access
And you’re still beating it with your fists like a VCR that doesn’t work any more

You blow whispers into my ear
And your dusty words make my neck snap at the sound of static

There’s tape around my neck now
Family videotapes rewound with red
With all the conditions involved

I was the character who was out of place
And now I’m spliced into someone else’s movie

There are arms down here
They caught me?
They’re warm
I belong here

They stretch
They can hold me as I grow
They can send me off into the air like a clay pigeon

And now the picture is so far from digital
I can’t remember the last time I watched a show in the family pictures in the hall

The glass is cracked Dad
Mom, I’m not in any of these...

I take a bite of home-cooked leftovers at work.
There is a kiwi in my lunch bag
Coffee in the little cups by the machine on the counter

They see me.