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.