Blak Sanbij

I blow my nose and
The boogers are black–
Like the tiny scraps of stone
Still scratching my scalp
Each time these eager fingers brush
Through tangled hair.
They may call us stardust, but
Today I'm modern,
Prehistoric,
The ghost of volcanoes past;
Dusty, hardened vomit turned to
Bits of glitter that glimmered in
Baking sunlight,
The wind whispering it to
Shimmying, shimmering life.
I reach for my pen and
Find sand in my pocket,
Close my eyes and taste it:
Smoke,
Salt,
Sea.

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Trees (burn cleaner than plastics)

I fiddled with it in my mind
Picked it up and twirled it:
A floret of broccoli,
A branching twig,
Spindly, popping with
Buds of thick, waxy leaves
Nestled at nodes,
Pursed lips to the sun.
Licentious, some
Open wider
Open up
To a warmth that
Excites them,
Breathing heavy,
Out the good.
I breathe it in,
Close my eyes.
Snap my mind's fingers.
It turns to smoke.