Monday, October 24, 2016

SEED


My dead eye is a sacred vestibule
an old eggshell, a single reach
of stem rise and leaf spread.

Her body is the mother of me.
A body married to expansion.
A body I can not control.
A body that swells to perpetuate.

Seed in me becomes
the surface of the moon split on it’s quarter.

I look into the mirror
in order to fleet darkness
and drink water from the fall
because it smells like mountains
and carries the innocence of earth.

My left body remembers
a solitary voyage
through the firmament
a diaphragm pulling air down to root.

Each hair bristle, each naked dusk
calls back. Expand.
Expand and come into form.

Followers