Untitled


Right now,
the world feels
   like it's mine.
             Silent,
              calm.
The street is inches long,
                and I can 
             pick up the
                       cars
       and move them
                     where
                       I
               want them 
                       to go.

The people are asleep,
       and the stars
 are telling stories
   that only I know
         the endings
                      to.

I watch the moon hide
       behind dense clouds
                      puffy and
                      solid.
      I move them with
             my mouth,
           pushing the
         balls of white
   into the shape
               of my
                body.

Stephanie Brown's Questions:

(1)Does the middle section, or second 'stanza' (if you could call it that), belong?
(2)Does the form, or lack of form, help or impede the poem?