Morning Transport I. 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. ii 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 is 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.