(Sunspot Grammar In The Outside House)
Sunspots martyred their bodies across my vision
as I lay sprawled in the summer-thick braids of grass,
my fingertips naming each strand Kelly.
I offered myself to their cloud-collision counterparts
while the city seagulls swam through my elbows,
introducing me to the shy cousin of flight.
She was nervous-tic momentum
with cello bow lips and a liquid spine
whose earthquake vertebrae
swung her loose body
through the plastic skin of wind.
I watched her trip the light
across the earth's ceiling,
but kept my heels where I could see them-
I felt suspicious of the sun.
Nothing is ever that beautiful
unless it covets something of you.
But my arms, those I wove
haphazard slipshod eloquent
into the photon filigree
of the oxygen ocean above me,
my thumbs playing etch-a-sketch
with the atmospheric particles.
I drew poppies in the sky's salt chuck eyes,
my hands bare-knuckle benevolent
and flying machine fast as they
rip-roared across the caustic waves
of airplane exhaust trails.
Doing nothing had never felt so new
as my active pursuit of existence
curled my knees into the sunburnt softness of the soil,
dandelions blooming out my mouth,
their roots pulling sustenance
from the stubborn tilts of my crooked teeth.
I grew radicle-toed into the earth,
a sap-spitting photosynthetic phenomenon
whose sassafras hips swung growth rings
into the bone patterns of my biology.
Somewhere between the death of light's afterimage
and this root-stumble method acting of trees,
I began breathing through my ears.
I wanted the flesh-leather of their drums
to pulse to the beat of my lucid daydreaming.
Then I could keep it with me
once the inevitable laceration of
man-made skyline-reality razed it from me.
(Authors Note: "Radicle" is not a misspelling of "radical," it's the part of a plant that develops into roots. Also, "sassafras" is a kind of tree and a "salt chuck" is a sea inlet. Sorry for getting all fancy on you.)