Flown

I say that now is a black river and my idea of home is a mattress tied to the jellyfish dock.

Its slack is fed until the rope is just another line without origin and I say that now is blind
beneath a sky with many orphaned kites.

I say that now is a desert of periphery, now distorted by infinite shards, now diffused in
paradise.

The air is emptied pillow’s cotton pulled apart, thinned, and so birds confuse night for day.

Their glass songs trill beneath each rippling new step of my sleep walk.