I love this whole

distorted timeline,

all its flakes

of hurt light

falling together through space,

and the sweet circuitry of noise

that becomes music, flowing

through the snot

and dreams of fuzzy multitudes

to create violent diamonds,

quiet embers

and radiant eggs.

Its tangled sutures

in my hands,

bruised wheat

and deeply speaking vine.

Its ice cold merry go round

and my seat in the fray dripping,

the whirl of expressionless horses

and liquid chains.