hours of day
When she finishes her cup of coffee,
the last ground forecasting, basking
at the bottom, she, the creature of
gifting life is taken away from the
background of dreams and brought
to reality. Her head, her membranes
try to congeal. She walks over to the
dangerous mirror and stares,
blankly at what it believes to be her, she, its.
A transient in a mold.
Slippered in ankle socks, she can
feel the air on her calves.
She curls up,
chochleated on the exposed concrete floor,
an innocence hovering around her wants her
to push out of the shell and be thrust
into the open. Her hair huddles the dust,
her allies. They speak of what happened,
how things got to where they did.
Transposed from origin and brought
to this spot, here.
The teapot screams from the kitchen,
imploring her, to remove its stout, red
facade from gaseous heat. This is a day,
real and almost whole, in its fleeting
time, spiraling out of its own nautilus.
She reaches her hands high, to quench
her muscles suctioned together in
their visceral, fibrous glaze. The oily heat
gliding around her bare, softly stretched underbelly.
She closes her eyes and ends up naked
in her minds eye, being entwined with
the tenderhearted nobility of the being
who pearls love from his cracked hardworking fingers.
She is guided to a temple where
the candlelight resembles a thousand monks
swaddled in glowing orange silk calming the earth
as the buds of an earth flower calm them.