She followed stitches in the road
and they led her, finger ( )
straight into the mouth,
where she tumbled, eave on ear,
careening down some flesh corridor,

emergence is its own special hell.
born twice, corps within corps,
so that a doyenne is entombed in my screaming infant.

when he lifts me, i rise, airborne swimming,
and i cannot see his arms.


what do you see if you they’re not before your eyes?

a clear sky,
its only blemish are size 8 words i cannot make out.
they ripple behind a flea-sized plane.

i see the sky.
a clear sky, wide and naked and unashamed.