a grain of disbelief,
a cleanser of wounds.
I swim in salt water across lanes—away
from the groove of illusion.
Awake
I must go to the sea,
my skin tricked out in leopard spots.
Diatribes wander my meridians,
my water and wood, my metal and fire,
my scapula, my little finger.
A baby bird tips its head back, agape.
An embryo feeds through an umbilicus,
an apple in its crop.
Risen
I follow the zig-zag lanes down to the aquamarine.
The sun is an apple sweetening the morning.
Clouds fall from my eyes.
