The dust collects on my sweaty palms
steadily holding
one nub of chalk pincer style.
Paradise is in the makes.
It starts out small,
an afterthought,
and adds to itself piece by piece.
No, I can do better.
If you watch close enough,
you can see the chalk dust loosen their grasps on the blackboard
to disappear as
fleeting,
curly,
whisps.
Free to float the breeze
and cause what mayhem they may.
a sniffle, a sneeze
Just like Paradise.
It was there for a while.
I was there.
But all the little pieces,
like one infinitely intricate and irreproducible puzzle,
they just don’t fit together anymore.