Laps About the Sun

. . . the grown hair that is cut,

The hair that grew through mind’s tangles,

To sprout new knowledge, color the only similarity,

Nature’s gift, better than bleaches and dyes to leave under warm showers, minty shampoos,

and serrated thunderstorms.

. . . the nails clipped, the nails that sprouted from meaty beds,

The nails that dug into palms with hands held and fists formed,

The same pale white to be filed down by skin’s scratches,

The dirt caught underneath tells me of where I was,

Not where I will be. 

. . . the tossed clothes worn,

Clothes once cherished, the same me, a size down,

To find another, to be found, in thrift buckets, fitting the same frail body all over again,

Resting on the same clavicles, pulled over a different colored mane,

Each outfit’s lesson erased,

Under glaring steel and gleaming steam, 

In one stitch, out the next.

. . . the falling leaves, the leaves that shift, I am the shedding tree, the color grown,

Green oceans, frozen orange, I am the barren forest,

Awaiting another season’s change -- no, 

Renewal. 

. . . the white tooth’s plaque forming,

Ground by the waking bristles,

And the tireless clenches,

Formed by the sweet sins made,

Cut down by responsibility, made habit by unnamed men in whiter coats,

Molars holding onto every word said: “cavity”.

Gagged by a crown. 

. . . the meals eaten,

Made by hands, buttons, and crinkled bags,

Dirty dishes, proof of days lived,

Triplets nagging in the sink,

“A new day’s possibility?” I ask, “No, a new week.”

Washer tells me, expecting the next cycle to be ran,

Not strolled. 

. . . the 46, Gods’ given,

Restless instruction, telling bones to fill a skin,

A skin that fits only collarbones,

Shoulders untailored. 

The padding slid under,

Connected by messy needlework, but how coincidental?

To kiss the ground with coupled feet,

Blissfully awaiting the day to scratch back at the surface with quintet cuticles,

Bleeding yesterday’s paint onto tomorrow’s gravel cheeks.

. . . the hands that spin, as the moon does, around Bhumi’s eye,

No, no, I am the eye that blinks, the eye, that questions what is missed between clasps,

I am the eye that peers back and around its own socket, back beyond Bhumi’s,

To be singed by Helios’ glare -- turn the other way, a reflection burned into my retina. 

. . .  pray to be one of many,

One of those, a deafly toned orchestra led by,

The erratic tempo tapped by a conductor I am yet to see,

Am I who flips the pages, or am I who holds the solo in shaking hands?

Fingertips cut, and, or, callused?

Watching the measures fly by, distracted by the beat’s fleeting tempo,

Awaiting the wall of double bar.   

Trimmed hair, dirt under the fingernails,

T-shirt collar stretched, & falling leaves,

Molars cavity from meals chewed.

Origin under timbre.

or repeat - coda