Valhalla

My mother remembers teaching herself

how to draw stars on a foggy window

when she was five, fifty-five years ago.

Most of us look to the sky for release.

My neighbor, at dinner, proposes that

we are but molecules. That perhaps our

universe exists as one fabric weaved

into a shirt and our beyond just wool.

Many places are full of deity-obsessed

persons regardless of their unique terrains.

They want to praise something.

Should Earth become empty, dust is just dust.

What would you do if you were left alone

in a museum?

Would you take a nap?