I am writing as though there were thorns in my sleeve
let me paint you a picture with my tongue instead
A marketplace in heaven, a retail store for souls
flowers of lashes open and flutter at me all day
and it is flattering to be human. Being human-
my sheets tease me of it when I lay alone.
Alone is where I am at some point, so the taste
of white noise will keep stinging.
A dark owl falls in my laps and to the ground
but as a mother would, I nudge her on to fly.
This is becoming routine. All of it, circling
over and over again, a messy time loop.
A ceiling fan with no circuits. A life.
This is where I am at some point,
alone in paradise.