At the Desk
I can see the world
is made of thin shadows.
Like a line speckled in flowered dots
reaching out to touch it’s living companion.
At night I am a world
submerged. Void moon in Poseidon.
Lost castaway, shipwrecked
spellbound
siren.
I see brown paper
collages, green-tinted, paint-scraped over with charcoal scrubbed
words pasted between scraps of started poems, maps of the mind, taped in
memory.
Ceiling fan blades slice away light. Each
shadow, an exhale
and my eyes sparkle
like prisms splitting white light.