No meaning needed - Glass Rivers

Umbrella clocks hum in spiral shoes,

while paper oceans sip their tea.

A thousand moons peel oranges backwards,

each seed a violin waiting to drown.

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Clouds wear spectacles of rusted laughter,

mirrors bloom with feathered hands,

and silence—

silence is only a door

pretending to be a mouth.

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The floorboards whisper of melted suns,

ink drips sideways across the wind,

and a lantern stitched from crocodile wings

guides moths to the library of salt.

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Fingers fold themselves into staircases,

knees debate the honesty of rain,

while a cactus writes postcards to gravity,

signed only with a shadow’s grin.

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Somewhere, a pocket unbuttons the sky.

Somewhere, the horizon forgets its name.

And somewhere in the middle of nowhere,

a glass river runs backward,

into itself.

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