Sphere

Turn longing on itself,

as simply as you would a piece of clothing,

one you have falteringly made yourself

or that was gifted to you;

let ghost ships leave their moorings,

the port of your mind’s rough crafting

(its endless fabrications)

to break the seal of the sea;

eat the apple from the core outward,

nurture the mother of your nature,

for the carapace is now the flesh,

motion the stop, ashes the setting fire;

rain precedes an electrical storm,

the surface of a sphere is now the space within.

First published in The Dawntreader, issue 33, winter 2015/16.