This is my body—porcelain clay from the very bottom of the brook, Bare, picked clean, and stapled together between urban trees.
A kingdom longing through the age of passing sun, to be eaten away by the wind and crumble home.
Thine a broken temple straddled beneath grave robbers,
Who have severed and split the spiral tusk that binds me, but now nothing more than a mare, so that I may never
Rebuild with my hips a pillar of deceased imagery— and be lost. Thus I reverie, that a ripple of one thousand fingers carry me
Between sloth and symphony toward New Haven,
And nestle into a bed of carved cedar. At ease inside a cocoon of satin, I simply float amongst the water imps in the warmth of my cradle,
Betwixt the cooing edge of sanity I can feel the street urchins along the banks of ceremony, Lighting their torches as I pass through the sewers of history. I can feel myself slipping back into my skin and breaking in my bones. I can taste the truth rotting between my teeth as I reach out to touch my world enthralled in a graffiti sky, and almost as if I can breathe again, morning comes—and suddenly, I’m alive.