The sun is a veiled sphere in a grey tuft of sky.
I am on my lunch break and it takes a minute to remember I am alive. The outdoor air is healing. The earth is a sphere too; thoughts coiled like a length of telephone wire or the tender, furled heads of spring-green ferns. This, too, was once a spore.
The rush before going home. People pour in to ask questions whose answers have become lost these hours of pretending.
I am not a pretender. I am emptied of all possible outcomes; the only reality now what stares at me from the cooking pot, milk bubbling and thickening in a round metal sea, curls of hot steam bathing my face.
a poem re-aligns my perspective, a book re-captures that free-falling flight into all that is not me. Here there are no expectations.
Never thought I was cut out for the 9-5. No matter how adaptable I can be, there are only so many surfaces, planes, perfectly round holes. I do not fit. I do not fit.
My supper has gone cold. It's sticky and congealed and conveniently bowl-shaped. The bowl is hot.