The locomotives buried in my uvula help angels

into this odd stillness, this place of erasing

inside the cavernous mouth of my cyclotron's

wandering lizard of already. My body burns

with the luxury of early flamethrowers, luminous

under a plumage of helmets yet to break open.

A poem takes me into a place, a meadow

where in the heart of a volcano I find all my stories

drawn through a rollercoaster tunnel in league

with sleep. Jets engaged, I have nowhere

to go. Bathed in my robe of Promethean teeth,

leafy nights re-imagined, my head dressed

out for a thirstier Thumbelina who slings me

treeward to pierce her amethyst umbrella, spinal

arrows reaching for crisper starlight's

purpling frost. To celebrate this angelic arrival,

we buy tickets of gravity to mend bees, a lemony

tang of pollen bright in its rub of petals. I die

after this mandala a softness– present-moment

breach a roving chestnut lustrous in matching bolts

of cinnamon and oh, this diamonded crust of mud.