gingerly, greedily

lapping up outside dust

as it gathers on the lips

a svelte view

if you sit still

long enough,

you can see the horizon

fall away

leaving you the conductor

of a new proscenium

It was a desert

(not my first)

and how it tasted of stretched skin!

sort of briny and red…

I wonder at sleep

and if it affects the gift of mirage;

how hopes or terrors enter unbidden

when the body fights for space.

Will I have to fill myself

forever and ever?

It was a moment

when sun flickered behind a cloud

and the stoplight changed,

pushing me forward.

with a hand turned inwards,
pressing hard on skin
until it’s red,
forcing a mark to be read-
does it matter if it’s accompanied
by a banjo?
can’t banjos be mournful
or is it just bagpipes?
the hand presses slowly,
as if turning
a screw.
I imagine a screw being fitted
to my heart
and I think it would be special
to feel a clockwork ticking
without wondering 
when
it will skip a second,
taking breath from the throat
where the right words have been lost.
I have been lost.
but all is well – so well –
with so much sky above
and all its patterned chaos.

Halved over and over,
I can’t be obliterated
as my atoms keep splitting
and reproducing-
which I almost understand
(even while it gives me a headache,
I can picture my body’s renewal).I’m not sure where
memories are carried
or how spirit can be explained
with blood terminology
or atmospheric equilibrium.

Would you take half of me tomorrow?

I can’t vouch 
for three dimensions
when I feel I’m spilling over
into a fourth or fifth.