Backyard Stargazers

A name in me, common and silent.
The slender blue frame of it spoken
in the cold white air, provides 
a brief breath; a ventilation.

My mouth is red hot.
Polite as a cotton ball 
that’s yet to soak the blood 
at the back of my throat. 

A garden of buried seeds. Still.
Waiting for the cold moon 
to phase into song 
and push towards light.

We’ve turned to stone 
in a basin of singularity. 
Committing to our practice 
of crying waves of rain 
to bring us back to life 
from petrified trees. 

We’ve always been sleeping. 
We’ve always been hungry. 

A new species is burrowing 
in our bellies.
Sunlight on our faces.
Eyes like rocks. 

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