November 21, 2016

K. Residence, 2 am

A birdlike crucifix,
a colored paper
hot air balloon
tracing an orbit
slow as a waltz,

curtains and clothes and crayons,
books and flashlights and a paper bag
on the ceiling, a painting of a tree, a house
slim as a milk carton,
an electric fan churning and
churning out
a tiny captive gyre,

that sends the paper mobile dancing
to the tune of a music box
only the very young can hear
(faintly, sometimes, not for very long)
and, pinned in his place
securely as the thumbtacks to their own
flying shadows, not Peter Pan
but Christ, above

the stillness of a borrowed bed
a borrowed night
a question hypothetically
asked, unanswered, too

ridiculous to dignify.