Hold the face upward tense with blood rushing
loud enough to hear hairs inside both ears sway.
The black beneath fingernails smells of rot,
insect blood, unshowered salt skin and cool snot.
Grass tickles, uncut and too tall, knees wh ile
moss qui t lean their n eedl s in to miniatu
ps. If they c uld be humming rds, they wou
be; ea follic e a c p th t a flower. Body m e.
It might rain today. Maybe tomorrow. Ha
y s nted t air today? I don't want rk.
One hand raised, a filament in sun's rise glitter.
Dew and how are they hatching now? Late bloomers?
All along the sleeve of my jacket. Movement.
Sprockets small enough to fit into a pocket watch
if one were to shatter it and spread its bones,
its guts, its gooey bits in a line long enough
to swallow dawn wavelengths and burp them
into hatchling spider sized droplets of
solar vomit. What are you?