Amoeba
blood, its traces proof
of desperate, bursting desire
to transpose thoughts exploded
into utterable phrases
fit to cross lips
live air
by even a heart whose finnicky
borders
shimmer across a baked horizon
melt quickly in order to float
evaporate across
borders
twitched veins pumping proof
of throats clogged with sounds
noises, really
living amoebas' lives
refusing language
and taking the form, instead
of bubbling, simmering
weight.
blood drips to fly
not of pain
injury
but of vitality
flying to paint the sky
the sky that finds all faces
not the same
but just the same,
mirrors each dimple, tear
with feverish precision
only one perfectionist the judge
judging slowly
by measurable standards
immeasurable error
and beauty,
no less
no less
than one in the same
