Sweet Potato Haircut

I miss being in love and then I remember that there is no one,

 no fleshly embodied spirit that can maneuver me

 through existing, who holds the antidote to fluxing

insecurity and mental orchestras of sound and startling silences.

I am stranded in my skin, which maybe I needn’t recognize as mine but of

The Cosmos, stars freckled across the sloping planes and

blue rivers running throughout a living, breathing animal

vibrant and alive and destined to return to stardust.

I am life defined in flesh, for a time,

like all mysterious beings,

the wide eyed and eager tongued dog resting on my lap

who looks up, alarmed, when I use both hands to type this rambling poem

which seems to be, really,

about the brevity of things 

and the resultant sweetness.