Tangle

I have habitually mistaken a              shard

of a crescent moon for a                  

star

trickling from one anonymous universe

into the ether.

I have seen the sun hovering

just above the mountains,

timid,            and wondered if it was falling or rising.

If I sit, move, breathe, settle, sing,

would anything besides forlorn spasms

occur between my lungs?

Is there any way to spiral me into the future

where there is a you              not afraid

of my musings and flaws;

my confusions and windshield wiper thoughts?

Wearing skirts that hum around my legs

and finding               Tuscany and Venice and Milan

in between stifling expectations

with your fingernails etching            love letters

into my palm:

my mind becomes an ancient asylum

for potential bliss,

walls crumbling with every pace taken,

overflowing.

‍