Ars Poetica on Ballooning Planet

At the first flesh of ripening
the rain-oiled road plumes
a landscape for our woman.

Her sari-swaddled sweat mingles
with mist, her arms shimmer 
over rice, sift, set, stop, she
slicks off the critters with an absent
throw for that moment

in which we’ve all once held
a tight life gently. In the soft
between fingers,
we’ve marveled the bomb of unripped bulb
into anxious quiet, a fingernail’s

sluice away from riot and
always made it
in pieces before parts.

In the sextupled procession of splinters jutting
bent and scampering in the joyous canyons
scutting through the twisted hammering
veins on our curved and boned and famished oh 
the vastness of it,
the solace
for whom we’ve all wished we could grow
right down
in infinitesimal, finally perfectly
adequate

infinitudes for yes,
we’ve all wished for that more

and more as the rain oils to the slow press of a glass nail,
her son’s
shimmering nail, his shining whispering flick of a
light the critter bursts
and bursts and
blood mists for flesh
as rice blooms the land flowers
into ripe,
a ripe so ripe
it reminds you it’s rot.

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