I am what the sky swallows before it melts into slumber;
I am what forces flames to recoil into seedlings;
I am what wheedles the ocean into releasing its shriveled howls.
These days, I vomit pretty words and they harden into a shell
that encases my limbs and props up my lips into a marionette’s grin.
I do a dance of reluctant memory but my feet always tangle
inside the brush of your eyelash against my wrist and I trip.
I beat my heart in a sonata and it scurries instead of flows
so my eyes drag it inside the crevices of my skin.
These days are momentous.
But they are lonely.
Occasionally there is an oasis of minutia.
I am the dragonflies climbing out of the gashes on your ankles;
I am the rust on a wispy dream that lingers on your earlobes after you awaken;
I am the teardrop of the tired machine that envelops you while you shuffle through your daily sunset.
Those days, I stack my sturdiest words into the foundation of the house
that perches behind my kneecaps and breathes as I walk.
I do a dance of hovering daydreams but I never stumble as I weave through
the happenstance that blankets the pulsating ground.
I beat my heart in the melody that I coaxed with quivering fingers
from the keys of ivory that arch across my scalp.
Those days are iridescent.
But they are complete.
I am complete.