I’m sorry I was late. I was pulled over by a cop
for driving blindfolded
with a raspberry-scented candle
flickering in my mouth.
I’m sorry I was late.
I was on my way when I felt
a plot thickening in my arm.
I have a fear of heights.
Luckily the Earth is on the second floor of the universe.
I am not the egg. I am the owl
who just witnessed another tree fall over
in the forest of your life.
I am your mother shaking her head at the thought of you.
I am her words dissolving in your mind like footprints in a rainstorm.
I am a long-legged martini.
I am feeding olives to the bull raging inside you.
I am decorating your labyrinth,
tacking up snapshots of all the people who’ve gotten lost
in your corridors.
