Someone once told me, “either everything’s a miracle, or nothing is…”
I see infinity in every fingerprint whorl.
My lungs sing all the notes of breath.
My failing body, a slave to entropy, marvels at the strangeness of seeing.
Thousands of miles of blood cells racing to give me another chance to blink.
Without effort or down payment,
The sensation of fabric on skin on blood on thighs. Eyelashes and fingertips and scabbed knees and a million broken hearts…
wannabe poetry. Collages and soccer games and cold beers.
It’s miraculous to me.