Sometimes

Sometimes an orange football rolling across the floor.
Sometimes a sycamore, thrusting its barren branches into the winter sky.
Sometimes a small white dog, yapping through a colorblind dream.
Sometimes a documentary on Andy Warhol playing unwatched in a room full of
             people.
Sometimes they’re the wrong people.
Sometimes you are.
Sometimes all of us agree to just be sad together.
Sometimes we can’t stop.
Sometimes things move in the corners of my eyes and I hear choirs of sexless angels.
Sometimes I’m a sexless angel and I’m singing and I move in the corners of
             someone’s eyes.
Sometimes the world’s a scratched record and the needle’s leaping, and heaven’s in
              its landings.
Sometimes I think I’m dying more quickly than usual, and I buy myself flowers.
Sometimes I see God hiding in the tiny spaces between these words, between our
             bodies.