if you leave a strand of hair on the ground, you might trip on it

i tripped over a straind of hair,
found a letter to myself,
carelessly fell into a desert lake,
and came out dry.
stained with blue ink,
my pocket began crying;
the earth jumped in to comfort it.
only with double stitched seams
could a pocket hold the world.
i notice it's quite a bulge.

laughing at my pockets tears,
the earth is painted blue;
the thread pops its weaves.
the bulge breaks free,
rising like a helium balloon.
and i, the absent reflex,
unblinking even after the ball hits my face.