I do not fit inside my body.
Spilling over, I seep into the pores
in the bricks, and the cracks
in the floor, and the spaces
in between the leaves.
My arms, working their hardest,
cannot keep thought from pouring
between my fingers,
and out into the sky.

 Thus, I do not feel my feet
on the ground, nor do I taste
the wet in the air, nor do I hear
the creak of the door.
Everything that matters is
somewhere else entirely,
and I cannot





In my dream, I cannot tell
whether I am flying
or falling.
I laugh and laugh.
This is usually when I wake up.


I do not like writing
nature poems – but here is one
anyway:  the water
sledding from green to
green in its manic,
exhilarated flight makes
me think that maybe
after all
I am a giant among friends.
The earth applauds this
thought and the laughter in
the wind kisses my forehead
as if I were a child.

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