something's happening

"can we talk about the political and economic state of the world?"

When it comes time again, I lie in bed and levitate, watching the pelican wing skimming black velvet water outside my window, a petal of violent snow on a purple oil slick—
Sometimes living feels like having one finger poised on a copper harp string, drawing it back, and awaiting the note that rips us all out—
I lie in bed and float up, like a kiss. 
This time, I think about the tree-wells	  tree-wells	 tree-wells	
                tree-wells 					                           envelopes of air around conifer 	
roots in the snow					hardened ventricles like the inside of an           
ivory acorn, where ice is the shell and you’re the nut, who has fallen in after 
cross-country skiing, head first, rosy and
                open-eyed 
When it comes time again, 		someone I know will dream of lionfish swimming
into 		my 			mouth,
         dappled, 	venomous and
whispering its bubbles into warm vessels flying off buildings in corporeal rainbows.

I lie in bed and float up like a kiss. There was a play staged around a bonfire in my backyard the other night, about twenty-something counselors at a summer camp, deciding what to tell the kids when the apocalypse arrived outside of the forest. 

How will we know if the beast follows us in? If one morning he takes to the looking glass and whispers all misty, about time gone by in 
pulsing wavelengths.

When it's time, the great scaled fish will erupt from my mouth, rare and gleaming, carnivalesque, like a silver bullet. I will sit in the tree-well as the kick drum thrums at my temples, and lean back to unexpected warmth. There, beside me, 
a tender wing.