If I stop to wonder
at the light flowing cat
peeking corners
star stabbed with anticipation,
then I must refuse;
over powered by soft banes
cloistered in ineptitude.
Instead I will dream
candelabras of jellyfish
jars of delight
shining orange in the night
And you—
the cyclical killer of fun
can lambaste my jargon
ripping shreds
puncturing
miracles
making me weep my dreams
into pillows of smoke.
Stephen Martin, 3/31/2021