it is my very own morning

i do forego the centipede in the foyer
the sky (again) is eggy
like some divine spaceship blooming

call it a mood
call it a giant leather fern stretching
like a brooklyn housecat
call it suffering
(let’s see where it goes)
(it smells like honeysuckle)

i dreamed the sewing dream again
it was hot!

like sugar in water i melt!
i melt again through pumice
sifting sinister seeds from
frisky lava (also hot)

today
wings are pinnacled
on the body
(just for fun)
with hot pink thread

i pretend crank an antique knife
in my belly button
(“actually that’s a letter opener”)
and summon a supple island

empty
but i do float and feel
on it
it is only antecubital to dread
this reaction of swoon
and needle
if you are hinged
(we are!)

together
we decide the waning gibbous
(of the moon)
is a molar
in the lunar phases of teeth
the shunned centipede’s many crossed legs (always odd) agree
i pull yours out
i pull yours out