Distended star matter steams into earthen
Sweatbread because it only knows to wait
Until it is delectable and
What gave birth to bite except God’s
Testicles?
Vertebrae eat
Until they can mask infinity
Behind debutantery
And the seas’ feet where they drink

Lungs are His cathedrals, on this night A
Boeing 737-7 cuts a spotlight
between twilight and dream
Gods breath carving alveoli with a 10:35 flight across rib bone
and destiny
It is the curse of existence, trajectory
Neither sleep nor sunrise will stabilize me.

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.