Buried in the sand of front row seats you’d

catapult towards me to call your own name 

so like a lemon i’d shrink

entering into flight revealing 

how every last word of mine was the start

of yours, our song rolling between each breath

asking

how that trapeze

is still dragging on and where

i’d get my air from— in response

i’d peel bits of your breath back

into their orange skin and explain

that insects eat me chronologically.

they respire via my atoms and inhabit bones

so i’d squash the pulp of my shell, already knowing

how to become plasticine, an awkward

slinky with no form but still something living—

i decide i’ll become your hands, a white winged

dove that never enters church and stands outside

and waits for the end all day. magic

performed in sunlight to the blind, a blink before

it metamorphosises into an apple core

heavy as copper dust it’ll dive

into coins and salted crisps,

you’ll see 

how fast cicadas soar

buttering verbs for brunch while i’m still here

in the past deciding

whether a crumb is an insult or an invite, and if i’d climb

jacob’s cracker again thinking yes i could’ve been an ant

if outskirts were made were for me, not

the stringed trapeze and not the limelight of a pendulum

where palms are a projected butterfly, graceful in their own

elevation. i’d still hang 

in my hiding place, some sort of revelation

still half myself waiting for the click

of this show to finally fall loose and become a big round

fat loud penny rolling into everything

sighing itself out from the hat and hand and run on and forget

its beginning oh i’d give it all back to turn into anything.