A Plausible Miracle
of Tuesday, so bland and blue,
between our shoulders tied with
a gleeful strand of crimson thread.
Our bodies can only hold so much
sound and stay in synch with the cacophony
of signals, like vortex mathematics:
all rounded, doubled, and inscrutable.
I'll make a batch of language to
soothe your tired scapulas, which
are so amazing when I dip my
thumbs into them they flutter,
those wings, and we both pop
into the air like fleshy birds
in a movie about people who
do things like fly over the city
when no one is looking, our chemtrails
blabbing messages in crisscross
patterns, quilting the sky with puffy slashes
that signify nothing but our joy
in simply being here.