They will call me a sprite, an imp, a mischievous fairy, a hobgoblin, Robin Goodfellow. You can just call me Puck.
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The moon illuminates no one, but me, for no one is in the
room but me and the moon.
And war is fire,
forcing people into the same boundary,
each becomes an ant,
Please slow down, let me catch up.
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Something in the gaze of ten thousand blackbirds
lays the mighty forest bare,
Still, the farmers keep harvesting grain.
Still, I listen to talk radio in silence.
Still, the field.
Still, the mountain.
Still, my heart clenches
for some long-ago now.
!['[Momma I Can't Sleep]', by Taffeta Chime](https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/59aef3bacd39c38dabcb0dc2/1776962464627-JTCWT4HERCQJJDTNULE6/pexels-alvaro-diaz-759268072-30450865.jpg)
I understand, sweetie.
Parched for a different life.
Thinking through what-ifs,
brokenness of reality,
audacity of US.
Twelve, maybe thirteen years old. I was just trying to walk and dribble through my legs with each step. I don’t know why. I’m not saying it was practical.
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