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.
In The Way 
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