I am scrambled
First opaque and next blunt
Made up of sometimes overlapping squares
I am an overturned river running
With a barrel of guts in my arms
I am not cognizant of rythyms
I am sloshing
When it comes up I either
Balloon into red future or
Narrow into cool stagnancy
There is not a choice to be made
But my hands are gripping at weights
I am leaning
I don't really want the moths back
But something is inevitable
At least then I will open my eyes
With a sliver of certainty
Whether this is cave or wing
I want its replacement