the poems are tucked with the bicycle helmets
the dishes are stacked in the fireplace
the children are on the shelf with the cookbooks
this is my house
this is my dance
this is my quiet peace
overflowing yesterdays, question mark tomorrows
empty hands marked with ghostly grime
of course I drop the books. of course I catch the ball
it doesn’t matter
it doesn’t echo
we have all the time
the tiny little squares we stand on
the giant poems bursting overhead
the doubtful systems that we use
it dreams just like us
this is the stolen night
it doesn’t matter
today I swam in a paint-dry ocean
today I waited as fast as I could
today I kissed the unlovable world
it didn’t matter
it didn’t echo
it is almost time
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