Horizon Lines
my fingers can't keep up with this allegro
tune that flows from my mouth to the walls;
i scribble incessantly, spilling every dizzying
hallucination (i won't bleed out. a cord is strung
up my elbow: the transfusion of loud, saturated
music). stuck in my head—trying to chirp off my
lips, popping jumbled in my throat. i want to sing,
sing, sing, but i just hum the melody and let the lyrics
plunge in. anchor them to the ocean floor—they
are light, invisible as dandelion seeds and though
i may run after them i am already ensnared in
gravity. i'll never catch up. down a highway—
watch the streetlamps light up as sunset
parachutes down, pitching under the shade. i
compose my hymn to the moon, my muse, the tide
rolling in until i burn with salty sting (my eyes
were open). the sun was glistening through the
magnifying glass, scorching me into an ashy
smear when the pavement met the sky and
became a mirror; i went through the looking
glass, shot into the stars. holding my breath in
the hollowed out spaces (between molded
lights), slipping into the seams of dreaming and
waking—i can't quite remember the reality. When
my skin had passed through the spectrum (flush,
violet, ocean's blue) i opened my lungs: sucking in
shadow till they brimmed with dark matter. now i
am indigo as the night behind the comet under my
reins, riding: into cold, into darkness, into
supernovas where i am blind. i have no
telescope. only eyelashes netting the milky way.