to host tiny fires ...

ode to dying
self stand sands rain names eggs and long memory
helpers follow culls, understanding is rain, we are the rain
death is rain wind drives time, rain cuts us ... slow knives
low aches and imperceptible sharps
we die to feel the rain
stopped in a moment
pause lighting
fuzzy walls written
don't stop 'on  that thought
what skin is thin paper poem almost lost
the host tiny fires lyres and melodies beneath
the bramble babble bubble and spit
din denizen when it rains
we raise our noses
smell the rise
of muddy earth
remembering something
that has us clinging
desperate
divine
human

we lift our noses
arching into morning (echo echoes here)

we ache
to smell the rise
of muddy earth
after the rain
we remember
we cling
desperate
and divine,
human

I remember wanting to see her naked
and then I remember how naked I felt
after that thought
& there you were

outside bounds
flesh blood & bones
you were shimmer skin poem
malleable universe
of infinite switches
tingle limbing
whims
choices
and then we have this idea that death
is finality because in this version of life
we are mad scramblers
the nautilus curled long lines
of hungry mouths
eating into the darknesses
of apathy and ignorance
and walled palaces
with plug-in-able garden
features such as
calming ocean sounds
heartbeats and high thread count sheets
while you count sheep
waiting to feed
what light gives you
a sense of salvation
or perpetuity
the martyr
to messiah annuity
only pays out
for a limited number
of years
so do we get busy dying
while trying
to be living freely
or is it juggler clown time
to be in chains again
are we bathtubbing the toaster
gangs with miles of rubber covered wire cord
plugging into where being lost is found, all
this according to the crippler wet nurse brigades
every facade a place to be shaved from whole
the soul says don't buy in
but we, poem and body, already know
it is too late to save
our thinnest beauty
so we loom the sky
and smile into places
where we think
no one looks too much
for the gold
of Rumpelstiltskin
and the children 
of the miller's daughters
anymore

EJR ©