the grown-ups are weeping for their childhood again.
"so much time in the kitchen!",
preparing meals for the children
whose names they still confuse
the garden outside the window playing muse,
a revolving machine,
a planet whose gravity you wish you held,
fostering and changing in ways you've only prayed to.
is it your skin now that plants itself?
clouds sun and worm moving within you,
would you expect to sprout wings?
is that what haunts your dreams?
your spine spilling it's soil across the counter-top,
sparks peeling from your fingertips,
the answering machine itching to tear your heart out,
your tongue closing it's eyes,
the calender blending into your reflection
refrigerated finger-paintings slipping from their flippant position,
the skylight becoming your jail and the mirror of escape,
nose toward the sun,
you can find you can find you can find you can find you.