Ganderations

The carpet smells sort of sour and plastic

where I lay, sinking further and further

in it. Until face-up, on the other side, air

piercing like first breath after snowfall. I'm

rooted like the Washington Monument is moored

by bright eyes on a class field trip. The chaperone

gleams grayly in the dusk, telling us:



We belong to the ground. We walk

because living is a loan. We are

borrowed forms, a generous leaping

of dirt—the farts of stars

bales of sweat, blood and tears

donated by the sea, funded by anonymous fossils

long before our time. We crawled out of

cow dung, dinosaur lung, yesterday’s lunch pail

so that we may dance among our friends

and familiars—some now fossilized

some in the process. We fly only

a brief zag before our reclamation

call it gravity.



I see visages

clarifying the terms of agreement, whispers

treading my skin, telling me not to fret

about repayment, that our breathing

is repayment enough. In other words

just being is the ROI.



When we’re due

promise you’ll return a well-worn library book

all your creases, scribbles, stains

torn pages half-glued together

til the day we’re checked out again

new jackets, new names written

under our front covers.



Until then

coruscant sky rims the evening

jewel of opal magnitudes

Look up and take a gander

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