Our bodies are breakable. Supplicating themselves

                                                 at the cliffs of our daily

                                                 sorrows they smash, high

                                                 and wide the waters of our thoughts.
Time stays silent.

Witness: 
We are blinded. Folded.

We step

               in, step out. 
We wait. We exhale

salt. It is bitter on our

tongue. We wait for

the next sweet moment. 
We are monsoonal. Always

                                     threatening to break our horizons
we pulse under our filamental

surface. We are spectacular

disruptions of tissue, explosions

of grape, cherry, grey, and the

yellow-green of our self betrayal.
By the time we have

                                    our bearings – 
our fields, scarred

and raked, studded

with half shorn trunks

of where, who, what. Everything,

                                                              everything,

                                                                                    we once thought – 
we blink naked

to the clear-cracked

sky, to watch the arrival

of our true nature.