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If the ocean turned pink,

then it would be mine.

If the earth changed rotation,

it would be mine.

If the sparrows barked,

they would be mine.

And if the mice spoke,

they would be mine too.

If up became down and down up,

they would be mine.

And if sound became silence

and sight the blackness of night,

they would be mine.

If only I stayed silent.

If I had stayed silent

and the ocean turned pink

and the earth changed rotation

the sparrows barked

the mice spoke

and the universe turned itself inside out

and sound and sight disappeared

into the black void of an ancient catacomb

…if I stayed silent,

would it all be mine?

Surely, it would never be yours.

How long does it take

for a heart to no longer feel?

For the blood to coagulate

and harden?

How long does it take

for the heart to beat against itself-

its soft tissue slapping a relic

of an unfortunate past,

a pulse with no flow,

alive yet dead,

pounding on the door of an empty house?

There is no one home.

After forty-six years

its tenant has left.

Trees lurch from an icy wasteland,

their spindle fingers clawing at the sky,

hoping for something to grab hold of,

but there is nothing they can do-I told them so.

Their roots reach too deep into the ground.

There is no way to loosen earth’s grip

unless, of course, I chop them down.

But it strikes me that death is not what they desire.

The poor things are too stupid-they think they can fly.

I can fly-away

-in a plane.

Or, perhaps, not.

Perhaps only in my mind.

But they can’t.

And so I think they are afraid.

I understand.

Sometimes I am afraid too-to be left here.

Sometimes I fear a horrible beast will set fire to this ice-and it will melt

and we will all drown.

flailing and choking on the last of our breaths

until we quiet and sleep

and the ground once again freezes and sprouts trees born of loss

so that they too can reach their spindle fingers into the sky and hope that in the gray nothingness lies

salvation.

This floor, I do not mind.

It is not impenetrable.

I can still feel the quake beneath my feet.

Despite its lacquer finish that attempts to hide the worm holes,

I can still hear the buzzing

and feel the vibration of insects

swarming underfoot.

I quite like it, really

the sound of all that chaos.

It is a welcome reprieve from the mortuary silence within these clean white walls

and this pretty floor that, try as it might,

cannot hide from me all that clamors for my attention.

But this ceiling

this ceiling is a problem.

It too shines as if no spider ever dare crawl across its surface.

I could lie here naked upon this cool, smooth floor looking up into the eternal void of this antiseptic ceiling.

I could lie here and feel the rumble of armies storming forth from the core.

I could press my back into the wood just to feel the pummels of the invading marauders.

I could enjoy it.

I would enjoy it

if not for this ceiling.

This clean, white ceiling

that keeps me safe,

that keeps me here.

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When I was twenty

life offered infinite, though imagined, pleasures.

And, as I delighted in dreams of my future,

I floated upon the bottomless sea of fantasy.

But years passed

and I found my feet set firmly

on its sandy floor,

chin thrust upward,

gasping for breath,

looking into an infinite sky

an infinite void

an infinite nothingness

and I wondered if, when night fell,

sea and sky would become one.

But now

in this glimmering twilight

the sea is shallow

drained of dreams

and I am dry.

Only my toes remain in the well of possibility.

But the sky, still separate from the sea of youth,

I look to it and wonder.