And then I am a child,
wide-eyed. There are lit lanterns
behind the eyelids, you call them suns
or pretend each is a star -
what do you know of love
before Poe and after Neruda?
How they’ve blunted you, poor soul,
quick tongue, dull lover.
I’m a speaker not an actor, I’m a thinker not a performer. So when the universe takes my world and flips it upside down, what is there for me to do, but roll with the punches, and hope I only get bruised.