Metamorphism

The summer I changed into myself, I was unafraid. To so wordlessly step outside the circumscribed light and trust the green arms of becoming is to hear without seeing the thin murmur of transparent pictograms hiding in the sun. If you, like me, have no time to spare, let us walk from the kitchen to the bedroom, lie down, geodesic, oblating before the natal goddess. I can place myself like a magic pill on a green tongue parked behind red lips. I am talking about that elusive inheritance of submerged foolish and untenable desires, that dream of turning into water lilies someday. I say, begin in a sort of craven greenness. The valence of our thoughts till now soused into a midnight blue, is ripe to be crooned into a dense dark plenum of sound. Let’s imagineer into being lotus hills, a frisson of sunset highs, massage the stiff shadow till it rises like a spine and then bends down like a torrential black waterfall radioing sunflowers, screaming acid and rain. Hang the moon, so cursed to rise and fall, over and over again, and sprout a new mouth that opens like a persimmon in a dream, a signal to enter—