You curl into the precipice of a new cycle
and tumble through the night all stuffed
full of life.
I wonder which side is the head or butt—
that self-deprecating side of you all looks
the same to me.
Why must you share spoiling food
with that stumbling stranger who slid out
from the other leaf?
There is a limit to the way your plump body
falls through tides of sky like an ostrich trying
to take flight.
That corpse of an ice cream sundae is still lost
inside your stomach, massaged by thick fingers
of lasting galore.
Yet you try to shake free from that shaded branch,
hoping to reach a bush in the sun or flying fish
in calm seas.
I must admit I cannot hate that wiggling body
of molted hair and lint, for all your uninhibited care
day and night.
About the Poet
E.T. Milkton writes from the clouds beyond the horizon. He enjoys hiking, fishing and eating meat.