Dear bullet,

People are imperfect, and I hope you acknowledge this when you reminisce on your spat-into-blackness birth. On the moment of release your head hit the roof. Your youth was a battle for space and a race in any direction to whatever light. But you persisted and despite another knock flew from me like a shot from a sling. But the damage was done: your course swerved in my darkness and post-exit my slime sapped your sheen. You'll probably stick into a frame in the wall rather than breech the atmosphere. But you're outside me now and I will never know.

Certainly Willow recognized people have differences and all, as she, enjoy mummifying ourselves in our blanket and leaving our partner shivering and tugging, and may understandably remark with condescension--that is of course empathetic--on a peer for the sake of promotion (for what is self-interest but envelopment in one's cocoon comforter); however, there remained a heartbeat too pronounced or a gaseous stomach or irritated skin when she shuffled past that partner or peer with blood-red plasma globe eyes rimmed with purple sleepless or betrayed lids. Undoubtedly she had a dream where she, her partner, that and her other peers, and others too--anyone, even all--could lay together and intertwine arms and legs like fibers to a cocoon, and become like inseparable cells of a hazelnut. She laughed when she thought how some would cry from suffocation or kick in the neck others while fighting claustrophobia and under-knee pains. Though, perhaps if all breathed and stretched simultaneously they would instead become a collective amoeba that with each puff shoots its way through the murk ahead. Through infinite distance in a finite plane, that falls infinitely yet finitely. And each puff is futile, and each puff gives momentum.

Pointless like a sphere--

some hazelnut dampened

by dirt that the rain just wet--

are thoughts soaked with fear,

because liquid evaporates

and all will dry 

if left in the sun for a while.

Keep at it

The baton passed to Robert and he swam in the sea that seemed to suck him in all directions. His form was imperfect, but is there an ideal form? Like the depth beneath his knees, the thought is unfathomable, and it burns like the sun or photograph flashes from the spectators on their boats that flick their lights at his toiling arms. Of course Robert can only swim so far until too much lactic acid or just exhaustion or despair slows his kicks, and he sinks; even though he dislikes it he must admit the hypocrisy of inhaling so desperately when he only draws in water. And so the baton passes to Jerry and he starts strong--swim, Jerry, the crowd and you and everything is on fire.

Diffuse from some collection
to a dispersal of atoms
that shoot or stick
independent of one another
and you shall have lived.