All this effort is exhausting my esophagus rattle.
I am lapping around on forelimbs breathing patient white but gray on the inside of molting. What the center, what gallop rides in on the night when night is not real,
A bubble rocketing star (head) light, shooting like some wild cracked celestial pelvis.
The oceanography of cellular bodies.
Free fall no will, adrift effluvia
Gather might, danger near to the stillness of the bole growing.
Not the branch but the bole is growing, onward the leaves now trifoliate, gather water on their green tongue, their winded epiglottis, nearer to going than seeing.
What wind is the whoosh of a willow a reed a toddler discovering dirt and sticks and wanting to keep them. Wanting to make the outside a part of his cellular – no, knowing it is already a part of him. Recognizing. How beautiful that is.