An optimism when losing

To have so much in a skull it bursts
is unlikely, but happens during moons
that duck their heads in ovens.
For the bottom of the fume is blue
like tides it once held onto
as if it were the youngest of youngest.
The ape the mother ape keeps hold of.
Her daughter or son, it too a human,
though retarded of its intellect but man
never thought of life like this.
Not as the countless ants
would die on their queen’s back or
would kill the world over for.
Not like coral plunges over, not
how pumas lunge and how clovers
grow up to greet their father the sun.
Not how nutrients gladly degrade in
the wildest of animals and their intestines.
Nor like one minute flagellum swims
to the greediest of greediest ova.
It does, the skull, break its egg
as if it were the human mother,
though adopted, though suffered for
in adolescence of thought and norm
erupt, and shatter once in a while
when its horizons make abrupter smiles.

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~ by Jeremy on January 11, 2011.

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