the grass is tall,
not as it were in Summer, and it’s wet
just as it was in Spring
poet and poetess alike
world changes its shape.
I know her,
from somewhere I can’t recall
and she smells of mushrooms, poetry, life and soul;
she stretches her hand and constellations of stars fall
like meteorites seeking resonance in a gravitational pull
crushed, decimated, primal
(I don’t know her!)
but we’re ethereal,
seeing light in death and in light seeing life
music plays in different notes,
chairs move and dance with the floor
reflections intertwine, cats disappear…
so where’s God?
this world is too small to contain huge hearts.