Morning Reflection

Like a pebble, sending ripples
through the surface
of iridescent rivers,
shoals of silent fish,
the crack of candescent
estuaries,
disassembly of systemic skin cells
and the multiplication of eyelids.

Flooding streets with the scent
of endless flowers and aimless
picket processions,
a swarm of plantar flexions,
a parade of psychic geometries,
the declension of deus automata
through the idiom of marches
and mirrors.

Where death simmers
and sharpens its sting
under sheets of melting glass,
where I survive, in spite of myself,
the reality of reflection,
squeeze my soul inside my body
like a yard of spilled intestine,
watch abecedaries of thumbnails
and finger movements,
idiosyncrasies too miniscule to notice
from the marble arcade of the clouds,
only to perish, congeal,
form a quivering mass,
in the whiplash of cannons and water.