We, the swiftest of conjurors
fabricate and weave,
tuck forcibly into
disorder and drunkenly
swing, eyes clenched and
teeth grinding, at
conventional iconography
grasping at stones
learning not to
flail but to flow
In our thousand days
the world was birthed
for the first time
wobbling on her
sapling limbs and
exhaling acid from porous
bark, wiggling her
cloven extremities
into the blackest
flesh of the ground
You, friend, have
been proven
pulsing and
tepid, fragile,
perfectly earthbound
stabbing others and
bleeding sap
from gritty palms-
Salt-stained and
woozy upon waking
29 August 2009
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