and breathe
i have been picking at that sun-yellow wound
that buttery Neptune
too far for the eye to perceive.
on the horizon line,
the fish are lining up for the arc,
strangled by the persuasions of men of the wind and air.
despite their blowing
this coaxing flesh feels seared —
fanning the flickering flames so that screams leak out
to sizzle upon the sunburnt rocks.
the clouds have provided shelter in momentary snatches
but they are off in a hurry,
busy about the business of wringing themselves out
upon the next hill
until bowing before the exit, stage right.
without them, the sunrays are piercing,
cutting me up into fragments of fractals,
dissected into puzzle pieces
that look like the bared teeth of an angry dog.
snarling back won’t do,
will only quicken the fear of everything wild inside me.
therefore, i have come
to shed my skin and sing here,
outside of myself;
i have come to peel petals
and suck up their dew, their dazzling sundrops
that my fingers can’t help but melt —
starved as they are for something fresh and tender.
my cheeks have tired of caring,
they can’t prop themselves up indefinitely
with that abandoning space
of deadline catastrophes;
it is too claustrophobic.
and so, there appears a door
made from the bark of a tree
that they murdered and cut up for parts.
opened up it only takes me in circles —
round and round i turn about my life
until, tired and weary, i sit
upon the very stump that began all this
and breathe
and breathe
and breathe
