The night grows cold.
I don't think I will ever tire
Of the nights growing cold.
The moon seems to almost
Fix itself at the center of
The universe—I guess,
The center of my universe:
Papers, upon papers,
Upon scattered papers and
Paperclips and paper dolls
And paper hearts,
And I,
Indian sit-kneeling at its
Paper center.
Hugging my schoolbag to sleep.
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 12:38 PM UTC
The night grows cold.
I don't think I will ever tire
Of the nights growing cold.
The moon seems to almost
Fix itself at the center of
The universe—I guess,
The center of my universe:
Papers, upon papers,
Upon scattered papers and
Paperclips and paper dolls
And paper hearts,
And I,
Indian sit-kneeling at its
Paper center.
Hugging my schoolbag to sleep.
Humble me further, Lord. Further, further.
