Eucharist, liken to benzoate uncoating stomach linings for the Time we wait.
We don’t breathe, we itch
We are not angels’ campfire
We are leftovers, crossstitched God innumerates, I mean if Gravity was just sunlight punching clouds for
Celebrate.
And I was anything but the bones of planet and the heartbeat of a Universe
not even childhood escapes.

Admit it
Your heart is an old light bulb in
Your grandmother’s basement
And it will never be better lit
Than what God you believed in
Then

God had to do something with their wrecks so
I rise upon my tyranasaurus backbone and, aloft,
Wonder what was returned as me.
Sediment of unused stardust choked for dysplasia greens drunk on nectar beading from inactivity or steam of the Pacific I pretend suspends above me as a child, my back to the grass
Staring down 30,000 feet to sea.
All of blood, the same salt recipe as such Ocean, harvested for the dreaming.

The emu’s body grew too much for flight the girth of mammoths made their sub planets too heavy to survive
The pull of an earth too rendering me, maybe too lanky to float, To dream so seamlessly with the cross-stitch of Time
to still count words in its breathing.

It’s a goblet of sailing brain
without eyes or spine or lungs or need:
Jellyfish.  It seems God’s friction
deposited a hundred million billion of His clones in our Ocean.
The children of a Dream.
They are there and nothing all at once
Like religion
And we would never notice
But for the pain and screams.

I watch streetlights far below,
like an iridescent ocean
of fresh alien coral and
in the reds and the oranges and the blues I can see flickering,
the wind existing
regardless of
anyone and anything
and I know I see it only because we
manufactured false light and
chemically altered night.  

Distant revelers take up the fight.

When waters are so slowed to tepid
And are infected and
Draw breath, and heartbeats detected for medication
Because disease is self-feeding
And forming nations