these walls are made
of gray matter
this roof of magical
dust
it’s built on rhythms
and patterns
its materials produced
to combust
not often, but once in a
while
this whole damn place
burns down
but i am forced to
just smile
as a man who lives off
the ground
who
the ground has something to say
poetrythey told me it’s rules
you have to
and slapped it on my face
it’s not my fault
i’ve been crawling in it
and still don’t quite get it
but you, you seem fine
with everything constrained
you make it work
she makes it roll off
her shoulders
and i’d like to know how
she keeps the soldiers
at bay–
with lips
like that;
and the subtlest breeze
knocks me down
where i walk upside down
and you, well
you’re oh so small
in this wonderland.