Whatever it is, the moon perhaps,
the equation of raised hair on skin, or
the tongue of doubt that eats
like a flower. Anyway
it curdles. Two-dimensional depictions
of light on glory, the violence of
beckoned. Please go.
The purple in my muscles squelches.
Fear isn’t flat, I’m trying
to deny science.
Arthritis crunches in the mind, featherless, sure
of certainty. Gentians
lick sunlight. I wiggle
my toes and wind swallows
us both — the flash drive and me —
spits night back
into my eyes: cool water
and silence. Indulgence travels on
with a cloak, just another viajero
peddling his trade. I fall
awake into manzanita scrub and blessed
sky, my ribs still aching with corn syrup.