by Shanti Weiland
It’s something like those
3D prints, I’m told, where
if you stop focusing long enough
a ferocious T-Rex pops out
with a stupid grin on his face.
Or like the dying woman
who turns to the nurse and
says, “Will you please stop
patting my hand? I’m done
with all this,” then promptly
flat lines.
It’s to sink into the snow
globe, tumbled and unheard;
the little sensitivities that make us
cork boards, ready
to be pinned as the world
goes crazy
without us.
Shanti Weiland is tickled by the Satanic Hamster Dance.
