I’m too close.
I can’t close it.
The celestial dressing gown grows,
shoots looks of wisdom down on me.
My engine drums against my outstretched ribs;
bones pound at an angle,
they sharpen at the tongue of: harp strings;
their vibrations rip at my throat.
I can’t stop.
I can hear a mantra:
“Shine, you dark, dark skeleton.
Shine, you dark, dark star.”
My shapeless voice quivers and leaves
moonlight stains on the ears of flower buds.