Rubbing Raw

I think that I fell on the slip side of real
holding the root of something I feel
with the dirt clawing me with decision or drowning
for all that I know I’m not sure who is foundling

Blisters and blemish are up in the sky
and the sound of mad cannons make a pulse that could die
they are groaning and grating in cosmic repair
lifting my voice with the groan of despair

Now the dear shade of darkness is fumbled and warm
to the soft of my pillow I now comfort forlorn
and grow from the meadow within my own keep
where the fall has let down
giving warm wood my weep

To the places that time has made smooth as a rock
I take hold and rub raw with my fingers the clock
for the sounds that I hear have turned grumble to night
and the sweet breathing bubble still holds to its flight