sometimes we are mud

Sometimes We are Mud
—for M.C. Snyder

We jumped from everything high—
bridge, cliff, tower—
free falling
between two skies.
We twisted down to stones
that shattered the bottom like stars.

Loose change and bubbles added up.

Only time could haul us back,
adult and powerless,
to a cracked world
held together
with duct tape and daffodils—
a million lawnmowers
too soon.

Sometimes
when we are mud,
gold bodies of fish come
to suck at our hair.

“The angels!” we proclaim.