Bards & Brews Reader

I Was Born in a Cloud


Day’s sound bloats in milky 
soup, relentless crow 
marking dawn’s flashes, 
idiot clock that meters 
out insanity, plants three 
planets, my fabulous dunces,
insignificant as the ants 
that stitch a movable corset 
between grass and fern
squash and weed, on purple 
night which pills in rabid 
froth upon my stubble, pure
and genderless as a clean blank
book that satisfies to mark. 
But no thing shall come of it, 
the wanting to get dirty and die 
among the pipes exhumed
from the freezing labia 
junkyard that is this Earth, 
cool to touch, fickle with ice 
and dirt, the brushable-off 
particles that transform an object 
into this recognizable life.

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