was flying
bouncing around this old world
spreading colors as fast as my fingers could carry them
powders like curry and lapis, crushed
Vermeer's centrifugal force
or eating sand and laughing my heart out til it
bled
tickling you, definitely, always tickling
Parting ways with loneliness
and arcing into the cold
with swollen voices
brimmed with light and some kind of magic,
sparkling
poring over Plutarch,
reinventing the invented
painted cream with columns and majesty
hugging the dolores
keeping them warm with heart's candlelight
ears open like a day-and-night lily
(if there were such a thing),
instead of holding on
as if it were some sort of ride
to be dreaded
a grip so tight
that the knuckles were white, strained
and sad.
Maybe what I could have been doing
was flying
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