Syllable = outer world’s
Ground, spirit when an inhale
Harmonizes with the opening
Of the solar plexus. Mused:
This eight-wheeled doorway,
Exhaled within the poem, healed
And sealed. East bodies the Sun-seed
Of the Moonlit elm tree’s leaves,
Filling its veins with the western darkness
Of an entire ocean
In this soil. The tree floats on the night
As the wind glides across the ground
Its roots are in,
Lapping the shores
Of sleeping eyelids. Their blue is the sky above
An island, with the air of their sight
Tightly coiled rivers forming one rope,
A lifeline from the park in the Sun,
Followed, hand over hand to the waves
Of wakefulness.
The underground room is flooded
And the rope-root of the elm tree,
Dripping white moon blood at its end,
Reveals a view of an underwater
Doorway. Depression, a psychiatrist
In the shape of a snake from Atlantis,
Glides through the entrance, up to
Where the western waves, awake, touch
The sleeping shore. Content letting forms be
What they are. The beach of the Sunrise
Depression holds in his hand, and swallows it
In the form of a blue pill as though it’s a shelf of books.
