Cells Speaking


You, on the line between a storm

and a fingerprint. Taking the view


from atop the five hills of your brain as

atop the seven hills of Rome, you ease


out your hours, a lily pad afloat

on us, on 100 trillion nanograms


of anonymity. Your skin

laps the shore of your bones, eroding


the difference. If your brain could glide

from your skull and into 


that mud puddle as a cloud eases from 

horizon to swan adrift 


on the pond, would you feel so 

particular? Might you take the stumbling path 


toward concentric consciousness, you

a composite swan afloat on 100 trillion


nanograms of composite swans? Clinging

to the rocks, you're a critical yet


articulate mass, hour after hour of errant 

coffee cups and broken eyeglasses, 


the bracken of your tasseled 

nerves, saucers of blood, a see-saw


reciprocity of oxygens, carbons, pots 

and pans full of snow and the mindless


crochet of dna: still clinging,

you're an animate grave 


slipping under waves of data: a swarm 

of zeroes cohered to gaze


at the hornbeams waving their gypsy

moth larvae and serrate leaves 


out the window while crows pluck and 

flock like a massive black 


amoeba. Does it hurt not to feel

so particular? To revel in this that


ravels you—grave flux flecks the surface 

of your goings out and comings in; 


you're the gleam in our eye, the reflection 

swimming face down on the oblivious 


pool where bright orange carp sway

such capable O-mouths about


some mosquito larvae, engulfing and blurring 

amid the blare of all this breathing. 




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