Face down,
under a monstrous palm of sky,
mind was born frustrated—
oppressively un-mashed
into the face cradle of time.
Then,
the anonymous elbow—
everyday life—
leans deep
into the throbbing knot
we call “me,”
un-pinching the blood flow
to the surrounding soft tissue
we call “others,”
veering us off
the lonely interstate
between handshakes and humping—
slamming us into the ditch
between the vertebrae
of thought.
Amazing, is it not,
the price a soul will pay
to sit up in a cloud
of molecular hummingbirds
hovering for an instant
in the shape of a body?
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