A fleshy thing—
warm blood and organs
and cells and appendages
and mitochondria with cells
who have cells who have cells.
The introduction of a touch—
a soft, palpable meeting—
moved me and made me.
A union of dissimilar atoms
is moved as the object nears the skin.
And when the two meet, to tell
what happens next is to tell
of the long history
between one thing and another.
A fleshy thing—
warm blood and organs
and something else too:
many dissimilar atoms
that could laugh and play with you.

A perambulatory excursion
presented to me an ocean;
aqua satin and a costume:
one I recognized.

Osculate affection
and sodium inhalation;
an amorous abyss acting
with my undulation.

While paternal extensions
burst bubbles full of me,
a sequence of imbibing
spur doleful reverie.

A pleasurable immortal,
and a marine that is eternal.
I asked and he gave
so in the ocean-tomb I stayed.

Shattered blocks of salt and such,
where a summer coil wrapped itself around my legs.
While friends play on the beach, and I was
stunted on the floor. The sand and I,
we merged and I am the beach. 
They play on me and dance, “Fire!”
is sung. And I sang a salty song,
where the moon rose, and I rose.
They were asleep, and stayed. 

         I crept and took them, they followed willingly.
         Now I am the beach, and they float in the ocean. 
         We can dance and sing forever this way.

—But I really think that I am depressed.
Concave, convex
Banal, or whatever word.
I used to be so happy, now—

There is a sun—one million suns
and shine shine shine tells me that,
when flowers grow I grow too,
but really they wither and when that—

With that, I stopped in thought.
So many petals so pronounced upon grounds
and I fill in the space where they lounge.

—I ought to get help.
But I see no point other than sit
with these suns and bask and then—
I might shrivel a little, and
then I might crisp and
then I might not
be anything,
at all.

I am a child playing with my foster sister in a small field
We play in mud and run around the lid to the septic tank
a portal to hell

I feel the wind rush through tree leaves in a small field
We get tired from sun kisses drying us and the mud
the portal to hell

I pick up dandelions growing up and getting tall in a small field
We run around blowing pappus at each other and laugh

and somewhere in the dandelion swirls
I envision a universe among unlimited ones
where my mother is alive
it blows out into the world

I gather these traumas and spin them out into the night,
and, maybe, it doesn't matter that
a star burns away my toothache—cosmic disassociation.

My grandfather dies, and maybe a star can burn him away,
so it doesn't matter, though
I feel that black hole—it lingers while I disassociate.

A rock orbiting gas orbiting the gravity of everything,
and, maybe, it's too heavy, and still
the infinite shadow stretches.

What is the name of the front-facing light making light green from dusk?

What is the name of the shadowy leaves underneath?

What is the name of the light that shifts across branches as the wind blows?

Wisdom: If a tree could teach me its terminology.

Can I be wind kissing the tips of trees? Can I be soil? Can I be the whisper of leaves tingling your ears? Can I be there?