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