A Place

There’s a possible world where
these walls are taller
and these floors are sharper
with their delivery
that will be unending, obviously.

There’s a world where the flowers
are bulbous and mean
and sweat at the mention
of water even when it’s
never ever cold.

There’s a life that is
a riot of bowling pins that
always lie flat
while we do the opposite.

There’s a place to bump these thoughts
against a wall
but it only frowns in reply;
pasted with gold it can only stutter.

There’s a crack to there from where we lie
but it’s hidden and
we can only palm and sniff at its suggestion
of being.

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