i wake
and find my body chained up
in drenched jeans and knitted sweater.
some gooey leaves cling to my limbs.
they must have been mighty.
air, weightlessness, surges through me.
i cast down my eyes & see
the puddles in the asphalt road
housing not a pitch-black canopy
but bands of pink and purple.
the distant hills, small as my knuckles,
hold the baby cloud, an infant embedded
in golden frames, or long, narrow scars
smeared with iodine. i can’t tell if
the darkened swirl of egg yolk behind
is still gleaming. but i could sense
the softness in my arms, and the moth-breath
that would burst out crying any second, though
it doesn’t feel like consternation any longer.
it’s only a demonstration of re-existence.
it’s gonna believe, disbelieve, and repeat like
it did last time, though this round i heal its
wounds properly, patting it through
polychrome and pitch-black in the puddle til
the yolk is poked, flowing through the streets
& mountains & buildings & trees, gurgling
imperceptibly. i look into the burning
puddle, a grand golden sea closing its eyes.
a stillbirth drowned within, an aborted plan indeed.
yet scabs are soon ready. as it enters
into sleep, the sea lifts its lids,
and i could see in the reflection
me as it be. a golden, newborn baby.
