You are pixie dust
broken out of tapestries
a dancer without the posture
a mime with the words.
Cold breakfast in a good way,
tomorrow will be different for you
as time measures itself out regularly.
We are not stopping,
moving slower back to holding.
A reverse of movement,
I can feel your youth in my knees,
your wit in my ribs
(not tickling but open-closing
like a dog mouth lapping for water).
There is room for you to grow there
in coastal orange skies
and wavering shore seams
puzzle piece punch out of the jagged rock place.
Basically,
I want you to find your home.
Search slowly with precision until
the sensation follows after you.
Then you will be unable to ignore it, defy it.
Boom. Yes. Exquisite.
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