but is it poetry

 
 
Instead of mopping

what lay beneath,

I painted underfoot

–no scrub, just brush—

–not nail, but soul—

detailing in

tended topography,

I rounded corners

my Technicolor toes

tipping

–traps unsprung–

when momentum seemed to fail

in lieu of dusting

grit, I kept it

distributing feathers

in

sweeping mimicry

–as light as hope and

–thrilling as wind and

–detached as the bird

from tale

we’re plucked

foregoing white

wash

I dyed

–you heard?

that wool that gathered

every day

camouflaging stain so

blinders complimented

perception and

vertigo impressions

labeled: upside down

and

I skipped packing

up

good

(s)

boxed instead the

(bad)

the

space surrounding

. . .things

–amassing containers

in  public storage, I

(promptly lost the key too