From tender opening, worlds spew forth. A wheel of flesh to sit in. Round. Spin. Stop, you hear the dog. It smells you.
Far-off blue skies’ chill to purple-blue. Sun and the wheel of you. Cycle.
You come from tender openings. Light spewed you; spills soul to wet ground. Dry bones. Crushed skulls.
Blood isn’t red; it is everything but. Seeing red has all / not a thing to do with blue.
Purple sets a chill in you. Screams between language.
Squawk, you being. Chirp again.
I am the flap of a wing.
transcribed from my notebook Jul 20|2018
image: my knee, a flower bath