Inside every moment, another time
thorns. Teacup of burr nestled in gold leaf,
the mind a place as much as a reckoning.
Whose body is this my body asks, when gentle
fingers press into wrong and startle
a nest of cobras alive from their dark
and hidden home, writhe into the light
across a branch of scarred wood. Switch flipped —
or made — of the long reeds you float through —
it touches and reminds. Your bones
always waiting to be renumbered, named
into a new ark, one that carries two
of every memory, built for a sea
where even in the sun, it rains.