ALLY HARRIS
I Was Born in a Cloud
Day’s sound bloats in milky
soup, relentless crow
marking dawn’s flashes,
idiot clock that meters
out insanity, plants three
planets, my fabulous dunces,
insignificant as the ants
that stitch a movable corset
between grass and fern
squash and weed, on purple
night which pills in rabid
froth upon my stubble, pure
and genderless as a clean blank
book that satisfies to mark.
But no thing shall come of it,
the wanting to get dirty and die
among the pipes exhumed
from the freezing labia
junkyard that is this Earth,
cool to touch, fickle with ice
and dirt, the brushable-off
particles that transform an object
into this recognizable life.
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