What swarms eventually scatters.
What says 'What?' comes from having been
touched to the ground roughly smooth by
both Birth and the worthiness of that breathing
Void whose lungs are cargo planes for famine,
flaming torches held by cave painters and the
cold metal smell of having chiseled all day long
on a shadow who would not hold still.

Plunging his vision into a sliding door's
glass filled with yellow meat-bees.
Witnessing again
the stray cat that needs worm pills.
The picnic table missing its umbrella
for both unwished for rain and sunburns.

A dream that whispers enough unfinished business
to begin an industry in issues that arise for the sake
of Eternity's predestination in being itself.

Is it what we are or will be
that we talk so much about
what happened and might have happened,
all based on 'being' surprised that we
missed our own countermeaning and measure
within the cellular belly dance
of this Universe sweating falling stars
to have sex with God's desperation,
God's singularity unfolded
for the reason of shining creases
and not forgotten book marks?

How boring is a single,
alone-full dove,
that Noah released 'that one'
out of all
he could have chosen?

How about a bird with more autonomy,
more resilience and resonance
with what it takes to survive Change's no-face
who's looking for perfection
in the birth of decay
and those new rainbow-beginnings sprouting
from the swamps of stagnation, stalemate,
and oil spills?

Like an albatross, a falcon or condor
(Or even a couple who mate for life.)

'For life?' Yes, that's redundancy
squared inside being born from an egg,
from an idea,
from liquid to hard calcium,

From oranges rolling into your
new infant palms,
to catching stacks of pennies
held on the flat part of
your elbow-balancing act let go...

Do we know what we are becoming?
What is in front of all this
that we're walking into by the vehicle
of Death and Birth,
these two shoes
that ever remain untied since
they're mootly on two right feet
and can at any moment
be exchanged for one another's 'place'
in this tripping over ourselves-celebration
of some song we've never altogether heard
with any other ears
than those we've been given
by wombed-default,

and Default determines so much,
that Freedom is hardly condoned
by a some-thing who lives as vicariously
as a tender-to-the-sky-falling-snail
zig-zag-crossing a street,

telescoping eyes looking,
tasting the asphalt's faults,
altogether amongst
midnight rush hour fleets.