On a Desert Island

My heart, like hers
is eating from a bowl of Cheerios
right now,
adrift in a sea of seemingly
trivial questions
such as “why does the world  have an
elliptical orbit?”
and “what impact did Coleridge have
on modern poetry?”
when our bodies wish to be naked
on a desert island
is it important or is it crazy
to ignore the pictures smiling back
at you when you have a quest
leading you across an ocean
of words,
over a qwerty keyboard of windows
and ducks and stars taking buses
to meth labs
and agents and bosses dining on
dreams and fucking on clouds
Which place feels more
or can both worlds survive in the
face of energy drinks and pharmaceuticals?
Yes seems the obvious answer
when the sky reaches down
to touch her hair,
and the trees wish to embrace
her as I do.


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