dragon smoke doesn’t fade like rain on concrete;
it’s claws will swallow your soul,
regurgitate your lungs and ***** at the back of your neck,
these edges that seem endless don’t come with arrows,
i can’t see which way is up, but something always grows there.  
down feels like the hands of the alarm clock,
the slap of the snooze, the waking sleep,
the sound of fragmented hourglasses still steeping
grains of sand and the fossils of souls,
outlines of shadows and chalk drawings,
it washes away at the click of the tongue;
the thorn of the fall out,
the broken language seedling.
do not cut what grows,
but nurture the roots;
do not forget to stare at the sun
through autumn leaves,
feel the pulse of the soil at every ridge and tone,
the vein that pops out of forehead and neck
at the crick of the hour hand, blurry material.
here, we are the fingertips of the milky way;
the subtle stroke of the skyline,
moonlight stitching the surface, but
the ceiling fan to the floor.
possess me, dust my figure
and glaze me over, glistening,
red-faced, true. not to disappear.
and yet, we are buried and suffocated
by the truth, so light it echoes in the mirror.