Poem #23: As If I Could Taste Heaven At This Height

In my mind I was better than this.
I am only a letter to you. Writing you in the dark.
Can’t even tell if I am still smiling, let alone nodding
through everything said to me, an implication of encouragement
lost in the delivery.
The crafting noise of woodpecker in early morning helps me
forget almost putting ice into my milk.
And I want to laugh out of context.
Every smile a silent mechanic effortless in its arch,
pendulum happiness reversed, instantly a reflection upturned.
If only you were the paper I sketched verse, perfectly blank.
Surgically, I rake the leaves out of the lawn’s hair,
the posture dad taught me.
A crowd of possible words massacred in mind.
Chores are eventually bereft of their own title,
a surrendered habit. Never thinking the same thing twice,
while doing so. All we are, talk and clatter.
She, the clock, and me, spinning in her hands.
Invertebrate clouds morphing into unspoken,
unearthly contortions. A wind so pure curled in my
palms raised, then departed from my fingers’ slit reach.
The wind in my face, Heaven, I question,
plying me to taste its particle?

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