Performances

The worse thing about moving.

The worse thing about moving is
all the peanuts, all those infernal peanuts
that go everywhere and stick everywhere,
cowering in crimson slippers, holding to
teapots like shadows, everywhere white manna
strewn like mischievous fat flakes absurd in corners,
content without sound.  We lose our mind, above
and below, vanilla rain vivid on green shag
mocking weight, uninspiring little
sparrow breath foaming tabletop,
surfing in slow motion that
static electric phenomena.
So we go insane, chanting at the moon,
tumbling tapped half-way home as desiccated
milk dances in stoic mannerisms, tedious to small
portrayals of protective fluff paused to freeze,
mass-less aside our losses.
Diminished, we scatter thoughts
as our nest gives way to gossamer,
self-arranges in patter-strewn whispers
swelled snow dust lightly curious.  Dreams
mingle in powder-puff nebula, consciousness
curls to shelter us from boneless white fingers
that patiently perform.

Lines: 24