everlasting

fragments found in the sink
echoed by the toothbrush
which sings in Morse:
. – – – – / . – – – – / – – – – . / . – – – –

flamingos dream in Esperanto
while I tie a shoelace
around a cloud.
Is this the end of rhythm?

yes, and no,
and yessssssss
(whispers the lamp
to the indifferent ceiling)

Ever.
Last.
Thing.

Banjos made of clocks
tickle the lettuce of time —
my grandmother is a sideways bicycle
pedaling into vowels.

A sneeze in 1945
becomes a butterfly in 13 dimensions
wearing cufflinks made of sorrow.

Love is a radiator.
Or maybe just a cucumber
with delusions of permanence.

Paint me invisible
and sell me to the wind.

The alphabet regrets nothing.