Are we in some way not gelatin or wing flutters
or scales of silver moons?
The cosmos consume a closer territory,
as we succeed in forgetting the sea.
Do you press past the cerulean dream?
Flowing between flesh, bronzed by the yellow star.
Are you not fearful of adolescent curiosity—a science experiment
of castles and plastic shovels.
Pick me apart in the way you inevitably end up;
a piece of translucent slime
that begs to be poked and pried.
I apologize for my dismay,
floating disc of spectral, squishy substance.
I am nothing but blood-living and warm blood
that seeps like crystal rivers through grooves
of tangling vines. Still, I do not understand
the weight behind existence like you do.
Or lack of. Still, I shudder and draw back
at the touch of unknown fingers, and
reach for the brim despite the radiating heat
possessing the pulsating, cool womb.
Take me with you.
I am opaque and cluttered.
I envy you gliding and insightful
as a fistful of nothing.