It’s hard to think of love beneath a wrecking ball,
but when the ball is dropped that’s all that’s left.
Telling the truth is like pulling burrs out of a dog’s fur;
If you shave the dog, the problem becomes the end of a circle—solved as it occurs.
The Pied Piper gets a bad rap, but I’d rather take a leap
than play a game of tag where everyone is IT.
Playing the part of a cruel clown is tiring;
at least mimes know the box they’re in is of their own conception.
How long can we play capture-the-flag in heaven,
vying for the other team’s white standard?
children too short to see where the world ends,
scared of falling in a dream, scared of losing in a game.
Scared the wrecking ball will break our back,
when a real spine would turn it into fairy dust.
I’ll meet you in the field;
the one beneath our feet, past the horizon;
the one covered in fallen snow.
Knit your dog a coat, and let’s go for a walk.