pre cook

if the egg came first then so did i, reeling with that thick film of arithmetic that will whisper your body is holy from the things leftover;

sentences souring against the beating that thugs could bring
lost loves praying in an unlit temple for a few brighter places to kneel than
this glorious hole
the summer toppling on fall with a violent violin that plays the
first sound that ever was
where the wind can move mountains it can say every story
where even then you will leave
unfettered and hovering like a weatherman
knowing what it is to know the unknown

clouds like omeletes without the yellow though there – there in the rapture – there are some
slippery shells which weren’t brave enough
after all