Conception

This coming light is washed with years

and time.

It has to be.



My hands ache and stretch

like lizards fighting to escape the shell.



What I must escape is vast and fiercely clings to my bones

as I struggle to create a new day

out of years and time lit by a strange new light.



One day it will rain blue and green words down on me

& summer constellations will waken my tired soul.

My final hands, free, will roll up little poems in threes,

stuffing hundreds of my empty dream-bottles with trinitys and

the names of stars.

.

My body won't be broken but awash with new light.

This day is coming.

It has to be.