all of the world
is out of tune
and our music is still beautiful

and our beauty comes not because we are perfect
harmony is all of us
trying
and failing
and becoming beautiful

knowing we are not by ourselves
a single song
but others pitching in
and making accidents
in symphony

Envy
how I hate it
It makes me want to **** a man for
dreaming, for asking me to dream.
What use is it, what use have you
in dreaming, in presuming
that I am not in my very essence
capable only of glimpsing the edges
the light-limned outline of the door
leading forward
and falling back again.

The bar of soap
smooth and curved as old driftwood
it is familiar to me.
Precious to me.
All of its shape and all of its use
is my own.
And with each use
it lessens and grows
in my heart.
When it is gone
I will open a drawer
and a new bar will sit
where it sits
and eventually I will forget
I ever loved it
and the whole thing will begin again.

I wobble, sail, simmer under the sun and swing in the park
watching human flowers of the earth bloom alongside tender grass

the blossoms were pink and iridescent
I painted them purple and added blue
hues to the trunks of trees
the tip of my round brush swirled
like the petals caught in the breeze

Every time I begin to clean with a magic eraser I feel sad, because of the pure white and clean lines soon to be smudged and torn apart. I console myself with it's function, the beauty of it's usefulness; but still.

on my fingertips
the small noises
of a still night

how rare
the warmth of afternoon turns
on my skin