The First Two Poems of April

Fluid I

I Go quietly,

The earth is not my home.

inside my skin and bones

works of copper plate


patterned frequencies.

Gears click and grind.

I float downstream

knobby feet to the sun

tiny hands of water 

pass me along 

unconnected only loosely bound

in chaos as blood pumping

whispers in soft puffs 

blown through a straw.


Fluid II

I think about a bowl

and those who wish


eyes closed.

It hovers

a gyroscopic blur

accelerating into vapor

clouds form and cool in stretched 

orbital rings swelling into planetary bubbles

whirling down a spiral funnel 

spinning, compressed

into a nameless solution

flowing into lungs




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