ManicWorld Magazine

What is lost here, I’m not sure.
It’s buried, though, way out deep
in the cornfield’s emeralds, the
glass bottle green sea tossing,
turning over nothing, no one
but me and the sky that I bow to.

I live my life like a prayer
to the beast that takes up my body.
I bend in supplication to myself,
this being, this creation of man.
Communion flies and honeybees
nest in my throat, a series of hives
that fuels me, keeps me alive
through the hum and the hiss.

It’s a separation, a solid movement
trailing through, hands catching
on the waves. I take a smooth stone
and skip it across, rebounding over
buds and ears and striking in the
dead center, somewhere. All of it gone.

Sugar drips out from my lip’s corners.
The ache of everything comes back.