Skin is a simple green dress
upon which he lays his complaints.

smooth sheets of rock
house the hips of my mother
who once gave birth beneath
a Fig tree.

For him, multitudnous earths pivot--
for there were many earths once,
clotted and trapped, made from
blood fragments of dying red giants
in the cosmos-- stark and wet
with realization.

I am trying to let the exhaust
escape through airholes,
microscopic and multiple
that push open my eyelids
until my bare back is raw
with the scratches of pinpricks
at my fingertips from which
I carve these words into Time.

"Please shape your hands into goldfish,
and cup my jaw."

In reality, my hair is endless--
it is the part of me I wish to send
into eternity.