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.