April 10 (belated). Wind on my tongue. Landays


Wind on my tongue. Threads of dinosaur joy
I used to know things. It doesn’t matter anymore

Lost the pen. Now typing in my sleep
On a broken keyboard in some other locked-up house

I don’t have hands. Hmm. Do you have hands?
Can you feel the rain, how it’s shot through with cinnamon?

I hear the good silverware dancing
How does it know when to start and when it ought to stop?

Morning has broken, broken again
I keep wandering through the thinning walls in the air

How does it end, this stumbling road?
Threads? Joy? Rain? Who will finally crank open the roofs?

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