Silly and Little

Silly little demons

peep, seek

sleep

in openings

between skies

or skins.

Skins above geographies,

stitched and ravelled,

time-travelled

but porous,

to the lapping of new winds

or wounds.

Wounds for the impish

the artful,

quick to escape,

to navigate

the cracks in landscapes.

Landscapes

that meet at the seams

of shared sacredness,

between

what is temporal

and what is ethereal.

Ethereal, cerebral,

a familiar whisper,

“hey, are you good enough

to be human

and to be

alive?

Otherwise we’ll stay.”

“Hey,'“ something else says,

“Don’t know about good

but there is enough

in me-

that is not human-

to be alive.

And you’re welcome to stay.”