Stumble on a little block, a hiccup
at the end of a sentence,
the period of today which is the sunset,
a wick at the end of a 365 day candle,
another puddle of wax, another ocean,
another, another gate waiting to be opened
on that great sprawling ranch of
tomorrow, where you and I wander,
harvesting the apples, whether shiny and new
or recycled from yesterday’s hopes.
Whether god or human, we’re all a speck of dust on the back of a dog,
running, rolling, panting; shaking
until a great cloud of birthday cards,
automobiles, window panes, and html code inhabits every corner of the sky.
Into this detritus we run, shrieking like children, flapping our arms like gulls,
breathing the architecture of dreams
to shape into frowns and smiles,
gesturing cities from the archival data stored in the mainframes behind our eyes.