by Tehya Sky
day five hundred and nine.
dreambags and violins fly
together in a Z, scathe scraps of
crying sky; turn it to juice.
four days prior you were meat, eyes
epic stones of churning erotica unblinking,
steaming permission of the heart.
my legs inhaled, faltered like
baby deer, regrouped like woman.
deep in the potency of the jungle,
contained in that puissant silence,
around the sort of fire that protects
no one but Nirvana, open heart,
maybe John Lennon. day five hundred and nine,
within eight fractions of what you
call a “second,” atoms of crying sky
turn from sweat to chocolate milk
to soured daiquiri before that sweet
and systemic rasa. and our bellies,
(bless them), drink, bathe, savor, they
save none for the News.