Morning Transport – poetry by Ethan Ashkin Stanton

Morning Transport
This time. I am sure.
You don’t. Exist. Random. Soup cans.
Crush. My toenails. The birds. Stagger to their. Time cards.
And punch. In red. She is refusing. To brush her. Teeth. Unexplained. Traffic. Jams clog. 
The arteries. This is a mere. Conglomeration. Of sound. Metaphors crack. In my cell.
Like old. Flower pots.
There is no. Such thing.
As a poem.
    my car skirts the open trench ducks
      the height limit sign flashes its readiness to merge 
                   on aerial pathways tons of steel climbing above the airport call
                    to mind pleasures of descent the compensations of bearing
                divergent angels 
        even magnetic fields migrate 
  unmasking the flayed terror of radiation 
  forty thousand years ago
        our ancestors were trapped in caves and invented art.
           the little bonfires of my cells bloom red 
              with their refining flame
                    peel this poem like a burning orange all
                  points on the surface 
                 are equidistant from the center   
             everything is glowing         no
           every         thing 
glowing   the poem 
  is a bird the bird of my cells
      singing to you sing yourself 
             into me my mirror twin, mouth
           bearer of galaxies 
     open your laughing eyes again
 my butter child
and swallow me

Ethan Ashkin Stanton is a husband, father, teacher, and poet in San Jose, California. He is a Jewish pantheist with a side of skepticism. His work often explores the interpenetration of the sacred and the mundane. Every answer brings a new question, and that is how it should be.

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