The Rift 

Our God who looks like Osiris and a corn flake of sunset siren stretches out each day like the dry skin of a balloon to flick the surface like a turning fork.

We all hum with him in the collective crash of our cymbal snapped eyelids as we wake sprawled out and arid bleeding like a road kill lost in the headlights of yesterday’s moons– still breathing and waiting for cold tree knob ivy to seal over our black lips like weeds or decapitated dandy lions.

We pull over the blankets like the film around the yolk sack trying to be born quietly into the day break– a break– a slap– a bowl rim shell seizure– a dissonance– an erasure in the head of a snare drum calling to attention the hairs in corn stalks on our back and elbow pyramids temples.

We flinch.

We feel the ripples.