Fish Tank Soul
As if creation had pressed its thumb to my belly and said in the nebulous voice of a star bird, “here is your window to me.”
A portal where my gentle sleeps and all supreme colors the antidote to my self-stinging
Every new morning, a cataclysm to be blown glass-bubble round with the sounds of a world flying above our own, a rare crucible to line dreams within
knitted in the walls shining slow and demanding of rocks and other grey roots that hold the world,
does this song groan inside you, too?
Pulling skeins of wind about my body, hardening my toes against the earth’s teeth, wobbling careful with all this light inside, alone and safe within my heavy tribe--those who harmonize with me--burying their dream halves in the wood like severed chimeras, prism limbs and eyes decaying with a luciferin ardor
I am a beacon in a wet chaos ribboned by rain and the clacking of devilish fingerbones
preparing for their work and I am radiating bigger, ready to meet them.