turning in on itself, and that I too
am curling up, folding away, and
learning how to fly.
For we were all born
from the insides of stars,
spouting words and colourforms
and every shade of moth-backed night imaginable.
Even me and my stitches.
And to stardust we’ll return.
Maybe I’ll fade through this filtered sunlight,
back to me at five,
discovering the world underwater:
the sun split and scattered across the surface;
the mouths puckered, full of streams; the skin
that flickered and wavered like a mirage
that was not your own. Floating:
that feeling of weightless freedom.
And maybe -
dustclouds opening across my eyes -
I'll be able to come up for air