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Get a copy of this writing in the Mark Fleury 2017 poetry book the Eight Wheeled Doorway of Serpent’s Head on line:

In the Tunnel

Mark Fleury

The last time the sky opened,
Eggshells cracked

Their streets as well.

The gills of fish heaved
On the shiny, shallow puddles,

And the lungs of the just-born night

Throbbed against the tide’s wings.

The moon was mean
To the broken, center yellow line,
Bleeding the yolk of rain-breaths
From the sun’s reflection.

It’s a story that died like the tail of an animal
With a human face, weeping on the side of the road.

What to breathe after oxygen?
Torn between the evaporation
Of water and air was easier. Daylight
Fell from my chest, illuminating the tunnel

That the baby street entered,
Shadow filled from the inside out
To shape the new day.

The wail of the infant this time
Is from the pain of rush hour,
Making it harder to tunnel-dive

Without fear of drowning, wings
Sopping wet on the street, yellow lines

Curled up like the dead yolks of suns.

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