“Just hold that happy thought, Peter…”

Yes, Peter.

the landscape has disintegrated

and your tether—

the end curls

of happy

So hold on, Peter.

as the ink puddle

of dawn

begets

the tear

of wings

and you, Peter

you

can fly

escape

to the irrational

side

of infinity

and be

everything

trace

the iris

of the Eye

of God

nebula

spark

as an ember

from a dying

bonfire

be

the pillow-sigh

after

uproarious

laughter

and never take

that exit

to the second

star

on the right

Because you are the happy thought, Peter.