What I Don’t Mean
That the moon is a stone on the floor.
That a moth is being eaten by motion and light.
That I am buried in dry, heavy sheets.
That rain is falling softly now.
That my father is dragging across the floor.
That his long arms catch me.
That he pulls me from the covers.
That even his hard chest time consumes.
That the walls are folding in.
That the curtains are blowing away.
That the rooms are filling up.
That the furniture is floating out the door.
That the books are fat and yellow with dust.
That the doors are swelling.
That the ceiling is all around.
That the floor is soft.
That cold blades of wind are coming in.
That the plants are crawling away.
That I am falling backwards into a black wood.
That it is pulling me into it.
That I want to run my fingers through its fields and trees.
That I want to pull my hand through its hills and streams.
© Toby E. Baldwin