Yet you forget what you
Truly are: the very breath of God.
And so you blunder through this
Dream-speckled life like an
Orphaned child hungering for home.
Home
Yes, I am your chosen; my gangling bones,
my sensuous lips, my frightened eyes.
You play in my sandbox, but serenely
store your vision of sugar plums.
We are all born mad, some remain so.
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When day is done, the sky
puts on her black dressing gown
and turns in for the night.
smooth as polished stone
marble bodies like three
for my –– sing! ––
How many times
have I died? How many alive?
I was a ghost. A breath. You
caught my scent. Made me flesh.
my world precious & so small though I am trying—
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“I know it isn’t supposed to make any sense,” I said, “but I can tell something in me has changed.”
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