Swollen Fruit

The wound is fresh,

The air ripe with storm

Molecules tremble with the thrill of it,

Skin stretching and yawning, eager to split.

My lips are paper lined with empty comforts,

Shaking the words blank and bone-dry.


I am lost

Until I realize that the flies have not

Yet sated themselves on the meat of my dissolution;

I can still find the right direction.

I may still have the chance

To find the place where I want to be.


But time is slipping.

I must gather my breath and project

My energies to my center

To conserve the heat of my want.

As the storm looms nearer,

My hunger grows larger


The world is moving faster,

But I am moving faster, too—

Faster and faster still.

And I am not

So far behind.


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