When the Dark Heads of Sleep
When the dark heads of sleep finally open their red mouths.
When the flood
When the tails of creatures are lost and regenerated
and no one knows the difference.
When our unborn ball their hands into fists.
When fragile leaves of light break through the clouds—
the connective tissues between land and sky unfolding.
When beds make themselves and hot touches
and hands reach out from between the shrubs
and rivers become the tall bodies of women.
When God misinterprets his own messages and we wake again
to our original selves.
When the dust
feels encouraged and doorknobs
pop up around us like poppies.
When we discover the latitude and longitude
of the crosshairs.
When the walls finally organize
and we look at ourselves and ask what
have I become?
When skyscrapers invert themselves and become chasms of lit windows
and the crops deliver themselves:
gathering dust in the crib, swiss chard steamed or boiled
and served in all those rose-colored bowls,
forever dropping from their own steam rising
from the dinner table.
When bay windows become
than bay windows.
When satellites: sentinels, and the grouse that rises
above its name.
When the bees return and the logic of swine.
When the blood turns. When the blood turns.
When the blood