A burnt mite, an unspeakable blur.
Flew past the sheets, paralyzed on the balcony
A still life of a corpse runs through my throat
and enters my fluid.
How absurd, that humans like me,
Find the smell of sun-kissed sheets comforting,
When the smell comes from
a scorched mite?
How can we stand with the proximity of death,
and still live on, singing and dancing to love and God
Maybe the end of a mite is so polite.
So quiet compared to the dynamite
of the sounds of wheels scratching the skin of the elevated highway
during an afternoon sleepless in bed.
She gobbles her eyes by planting wisteria
Piled her veins with the scent of carnation, touch of gear-patterned leaves
What does she feel? She feels the pairing knives, fluffy fur,
swallowing down her throat.
She is poised in the midst of numbness.
Wood, flowers, mites, this life.