Cradlefish
Now a small cradlefish—
his brain rocking in the skull,
adeptly learning his earliest youth,
this soft havoc of ribbons and spit
is the baby…
Now a small cradlefish—
his brain rocking in the skull,
adeptly learning his earliest youth,
this soft havoc of ribbons and spit
is the baby…
When the self undergoes delineation
in the matrix of a psychoholo cube,
a fluted and opaque blossom
with an articulated stem emerges:
What if there was a light that
burned always—
one that pushed out the dark and let us
move into its steady warmth?