The soul’s happy when paradise is etched
in electrics: spirits, living avalanche being pulled
toward falling voices. Dusted corners, smears,
chipped imprints don’t seem so dissimilar
to the skin I wear, carry out to the porch every night.
What we can’t see: laying a floor pebble by pebble,
mosaic for humanity to step all over, cracks
full of blue energy exerted. Search through silence—
Under what shelter, what skin can I find you again,
reaching for spirals of my hair, clavicle soft as lying?
I see the dull stars twinkle out of constellation, what
hush will come over us as we drift over decomposing
life, seeing nothing to change us. I don’t want to set
the world on fire to watch it burn, just to get some
sensation under the skin of ghosts still stuck in limbo
between grazing over the earth and condensing
to live inside, our bones like knives, they need sharpening:
too soft around edges. You know this land, slowly
sinking below sea level on a constant basis, don’t come
near… Some days remind me trouble happens
to everyone, while other days remind me sunrise grows
less luminous with its arc, more damp and shadowless.