POEM

Moonist of scaly silver giving up its winds, the
Simoom shifted, zoomed-in, yawned myself 
historically to mind’s ear. O door’s scent, quivery
nets in a fish-tank in windows. The sky has “all but”
opened up with a crackling grin, rainplume uttering 
myrrh sweet to my heat-felt limbs; brows sweating
into the afterwho; armored octopod’d suctionables 
amazing grace; the sunlight wasn’t shining anywhere 
upon this earth this night, but it’s the way I follow it,
the sun, that is, by night, as if I were a metaphysical 
presence more interested in the meringue than the pie—
this world, as it carries weight past each large house, 
past each smaller one, strives to poke new holes 
through our centers; with each pin-point as stifling, 
faltering, we can see directly into the density as our 
shadows pass across the beautiful earth as if we were
tap-dancing in a canoe.