covered in pajamas, gentle feet

today, we are sitting in a bowl.
there are no more misadventures
on this side of town.  tied up,
a brown paper parcel,
clouds bulging with squashed-down tears
a sentence eternally

interrupted

troubled scrawls and
full heart drawls
in a dream we swore we could walk on.  'ma'am,
it's only two more dollars', a one way ticket to
everything we cannot define—forget defining.
definition is the lost man's antidote.  we are not lost.
we are here and we are not infinite.  we are simply a neverending stream
of sacrifice, and we are somewhat beautiful—
our finger curves, the clothing we wear and the food we
crave

the days go on.
the calendar pretends
to measure something.

the rhythm of earth,
on your gentle feet