the small things
The Small Things
There’s a silver ring on my thumb, which makes
the hand far more attractive, a yellow
ring in my blue eye, which turns it
to green. Spilled coffee on my comforter,
I wake to its aroma without putting on a
pot enters my lungs through the cracks
of my neighbor’s door.
A sweet reminder that I’m home, where I
write on the small things worth
writing, with each ending also a
beginning on Monday I looked up at this polluted sky,
where I saw a moon neither waning
nor waxing, an imperfect circle
so stagnant and incredible: the moon and you
are 3 billion miles away,
and I miss some things, like
tugging on your shoulders and
a dizzying physical devotion
bound to fall through
cracks in my knees remind me
of my legs and where they’ve taken me.
I ran five miles on a treadmill and
went absolutely nowhere. But I’m still going
places are filled with people that are so afraid of death.
And I don’t know what happens after we die—
I’m asking around but once I’m gone I can no longer
listen, the difference between you and me is
this morning I stepped on glass and
smiled, since that’s the worst that can happen.