for every little thing i may unwind from my spores
there are other things floating in the yoke of my egging.
a sort of brusk helium chipping away at my lead weights
elevating the intrigue of my primal thoughts
from the bog of my susceptible
desires.
glistening like a trophy made of skeletal glitter
and flesh.
a sage where idiots dream of something other than the sun
staring at a hole with calloused eyes-
the hammer in your inkwell
pounding the sun into your thumbnail
like a rune you stitch
into your marrow.
now the word that gave you Life-
has an Echo.
tumbling over you and you and you