On a beach to the left of a wrinkled river
a boy is squatting
but he doesn’t know what for.
He kills time
by deforming the forehead of breadcrumbed quartz:
his sinking feet create two parallel craters
and the sandcastle at the center
of his revolving, agile hands
is almost complete.
Obese sunlight naps on his back
and the pressure is slowly tanning his skin.
The trees behind the opposing shore
are being pulled into galaxies
but their trunks are still grounded:
they keep on stretching and expanding
without breaking or leaving.
Gaps between their branches
are sliced with traveling dental floss
from spiders who wish to fly.
While soaring through
and destroying these webs of dreams
a bird sees
that the boy
has built his castle
in the shape of a question mark.
Victor Allen is a poet living in NYC. You can contact him here.