You Know

In the deep blood
oxygen deprived morning,
blue like a bruise
beneath skin, knowing
Ptoelmy’s hot body,

this world, of which we are
just sex, nothing but
a fungus filled with seeds
of consciousness absorbed
by the stomach’s inner lining, I

feels still, like the sun
rolls back in, always,
in a day, or a month,
that universal uterus
ending in a prick of light.

I dream days away,
devoted, in a deep chill,
to the idea that I must offer
something unique to this world
with these gold flecked eyes.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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