& artificial spheres might haunt me
long into the endless nights,
the deadly fingers that betray me
even in my sleep
where the air is more terrible
than the memory of knowing anything.
i find myself
in the loneliest patches of woods
with the moon at that ever mocking right angle above me,
clawing at the earth, the soil of my under-darling,
searching for some lost artifact
of my own existence,
something telling of the time i spent
amongst the dust of this forest.
i rub raw the skin of my wrists
on the oaks around me,
strangely hoping that just one
will open its bark to me,
revealing the possibility of my flesh
entering into its own,
releasing my limbs into its sun-filled compartments.
the ocean is always inside me though.
i close my eyes,
drifting out over the oxygen & the weather
& the infinite vibrations of whatever loves me.
i can take my hands
& with slight pushings
return my heart to the coral of it's being,
trembling beneath waves of unearthed treasures.
it is the puzzle of living
that compels me to escape,
to dive into the purposeful blue without judgement.
often when i open my eyes
& stare into the mirror of everything
i'm left saddened with what remains
when, at last, i close my eyes again.
i've found that it's been impossible
to have known death so many times
& to have not somewhat become it...