you must lift your feet. Hydrogen glints in your eye,
sending beams, the whole world humming awake.
brandishing a solar circle
on a dark drawn room. Do this.
light the candle
like a swaying moon, to bright.
You can rest, there in the mix of elements,
the little white lights that are you.
they sing the language of days you haven’t heard before,
and you can trail still sleepy ghosts
and see constellations
you paint the colours of rushing noise
transmitting through ossicles to the labyrinth.
Get up. Do it. Stretch your back to the sky
ninety percent of your body is stardust
and
each atom in each cell in each eye
formed in the core of a star.
you burn breath like magician’s smoke
carrying all the planets close. Flowering in Liaoning.
Earth’s early opening eye.
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