Shapes of things

I am having trouble
with the shapes in my head
this morning.

They are without color
or definition
and I’m curious:
What is the shape of a thought?
And who shapes the shapes
that appear and vanish
like a one-night stand?
Is it God? Is it her god? Your god? My god?

Wondering whose god is God
is one of the shapes
in my head.

If there are many gods,
must I believe in just one
or must I serve many masters?
Or mistresses?
Can I choose to believe in a female god
or must God be a male?
And how do I know if I have chosen
the correct god?

That is a shape of things to come.


A man once told me he could see my angel wings. He sketched a picture of me with my angel wings. In blue ink.

Yet ink fades.

They must be light as a feather, I thought of my angel wings, for I could not and still cannot feel their heft.

One would think a pair of angel wings to be somewhat cumbersome and burdensome, in that you are forever crouching to pick someone up and dust the despair from their soul. Yet what is the shape of burden?

It is weightless compared to the shape of ink that fades.


There is no moral to any story, for it is people, not stories, who have morals, which is why they shape stories about a boy crying wolf.

%d bloggers like this: