Paradise
Andy Stallings
While the carousel circled
and sang, I cut tunnels under
syntax to let my secrets run.
Forced into correspondence
with a list, I rolled like a
coastal storm, traffic cones,
trash barrels, diaper flaps,
clear-shelled shrimp strung
from my central motor.
There’s no key for turning
the fury of meaning inward
that isn’t already stuck in lock
and assembly. So I sit in
the meaning of your eyes.
If you’ve had your way with
the sentence, I’m palpably
vacant, a vessel, ready for
blood. Is this why I strike
deep into other hearts, to
stake my churn to some castle
that could be my keep, or
keep me alive.