wph

ghosts of peo / ple hiding in this house / they grew up in and left / hiding under tables in clo / sets long thin men pale pe / ople dark people all hidden / separately in the same room / waiting for the seeker to finis / h counting endlessly endl

He can see kids glowing in the kitchen, 
Hands sticky with sweet gossip, 

Bright, beautiful little selves smudged by the window that he, 
A cracked old statue has broken his hands and fingers by banging on, 

Do you feel your head unspooling into the universe?

The strings are fraying at the edges, 

irreparably stained with the stardust at the ends

Of the many worlds you stretch across.

Yes, Alice thought as she drifted deeper into sleep from within that lightless and beautiful place, make it stranger now. Make it all new again.

My very favorite poem is an inarguably terrible one. I do not know its name and do not care to find out if it has a name.

The sun is pink, and the sky is green on the day that I am standing knee deep in perfectly still salt water. The tired marble floor of heaven is finally dissolving beneath my feet.