bloom-y and pretty to the naked eye.
I want to be a bigger engine and to hum
louder than a novelist or a baker. I have daydreams
about what could happen, what might
manifest. In my chilled night hours, alone like
a wasp at a window, I buzz strongly and feel
likely to move into a new dormitory, where lunch
and dinner are served with dark bloody gravy. But
when nothing happens, I think of my children,
learning to be themselves and falling in love
with everything new. They are smart,
good kids. They make these high-pitched tiny
sounds with their mouths and laugh in bubbles.
They don't know the gravity that falls on the earth
or the lungs that power the body or the brains
which scramble the too much info. They are
just blind moles of love who shuffle quietly around.
I think of birds sometimes.
Other times, without thinking it through, I notice
my surrounding and the terrible colors.
I feel spooky, Tina.
I feel deadly and flat.
