A sock puppet hangs
from the parietal ceiling of my skull.
You’re no stranger, but I am. So I keep
my body still. Dance
is equivalent to confession.
A chandelier heavy with light.
You wear bemusement thickly. I explain.
The chandelier hangs in the space between
an impulse too clumsy to color within the lines
and a quanta of unintended flight.
It is the obese spirit.
Secretly, you think I’m too proud to be happy.
We both know how this is going to end.
The soundtrack is already
under construction. I build it up,
twist the elbows of the radio.
image by !Nesten