Wake up from that dream:
had to deliver Bibles to
the overfunded church. But now
everything smells like breakfast.
The floor is room temperature.
Everything is room temperature.
In the mirror in the bathroom
I look like shit. Tap tap
scratch. I look like shit
in all the other rooms too,
but nobody seems to mind,
so neither do I. Tap tap.
The walls are room temperature.
The great voice asks if I’ve fallen in.
I have, I really have these past
few months. In the bedroom
the light dims and is replaced.
Tap tap. So cross to the window.
Your fingertips tremble there
they fill the frame. You’re patient
as any building would be,
waiting for tenants. I step into
your hand. Your great voice:
were you in a coma or something?
As I rise as you rise, as you
stand up, as you plod us to coffee
as I am brought magic carpet
to breakfast to the large and larger world
I say maybe I was. But maybe it’s worth it.
Size Writes 