What is fluff?

Dense marshmallow-ness

Floating in the clouds, or Benedict

Spreading cheese on the soul

of the cracker, dried, stale, discarded

in a widow’s locked cabinet above the slowly

fading icebox.

My god – the darkness the window brings,

In shaded rays on unlight

Pour cooly over the sill

And slide across the floor

Don’t be afraid of the back cracking,

It just means we’re comfortable

But comfortable with what?

With our own sense of failure,

Or with our own sense of loss?

Perhaps it is our own ignorance

That prevents us from seeing

Like the filters in our heads

Or the hair that blocks our eyes

And such.

All these impediments

And still I cannot see.