Sleep Mesothorax

Dead fly on the ground

Stopped moving

Silent charcoal upon carpet

It glints as I turn the chair

The light dances across

Wings on the mesothorax

Scarlet orbs and antennae

Still against larger objects

Bed and container and table

And I wish I was that fly



I want to be that fly


Fragile strands of meat, sleeping in a pool of gruel,

Oil, deep, bubbling towards the light,

The burn tickles, nestled somewhere in the forest,

Everything we touch fades away,

Burning through the trees, plyers pulling teeth

Ligaments and fragments intertwined

Shadows of the morning, arisen,

Empty can, empty nest,

The child sleeps happy


Embers of day dissolve into dusk

Layers of yellow settle into jonquil

And the yoke of orange

dances upon a sapphire winter

A glimmer of celestial television

Here, nestled into the horizon

The Tree of Life Spits Cosmos

This tree is standing still

The branches slowly crack

The zephyr pushes back and forth

It pushes me aside

I’ve planted this tree to admire

To admire its fragility

When it falls, I fall

When a leaf falls, apart of me dies

Take away from this being

I hope it doesn’t break

Because when it does

I fall along with it

I watch it fall apart

Like a broken mirror

Its beauty I watch

This cool chill beckons me

Reminds me not to forget

The trouble past and the inevitable future

Reminds me of who I am

Or who I should be

I watch the tree, so still

And then, it falls apart