I was dead and indigo-bluedelicate as a tin can when I was borna can of fat and bones, a bundle of breezeshoved out of the black bed of a mothertongue was a bay miles awayvoice a bramble tightenedbetween the sun and the tricky task of passingI was such a tin can, a divine scaba scar on the skin of March, moist and latethat is the fire brigade of sleepthen I was a harvest, beginning of a cyclethat seems like an ending but isn’tlike TV shows start with familiar scenesand a worm enters a fruit to bloomno bridge arcs the tongue and it’s impossible to cross itjust swim and swallow and spit dark liquid down the teethliquid dedicated to silencemother speaks correctly I mostly rejectnow that I’m alive I want odd and quick thingsbones of leaves the green skull of appleheart beating in a less boring rhythm, yet still beatingI’m still that tin can and will again be dead and indigo-bluewhen beside you a bent nail hammers melove painted like a corn crib and a country stopin summertime when hot trains tear and sow and tear againthat barrel, the night