Koronadal Wanderer Fenghuang I stand on brittle grass,
the earth planting my root,
and night poured over me —
a thousand ancient wounds, stitched with light.
I thought:
what small fire kindles in my ribs,
what whisper I am,
what dust-song in an endless field of turning.
The sky opens its arms without judgment,
brimming with the slight weight of forever.
And I —
I am a blink,
a tiny exhale
in the chest of something
far too large to name.
Bust it to pieces, Billy
A Fifth
The universe is not made up of particles,
but ratios.
A fifth, to be specific.
Not mass,
not matter,
but the leaning of one number into another,
the quiet swelling of a sequence older than time.
Galaxies bend by it.
Rivers muscle their banks by it.
Shells coil, ferns unfurl, storms remember their shapes.
Three to two,
five to three,
eight to five—
the ladder hidden in all things,
singing itself upward.
You are not made of matter.
You are made of ratios,
of the perfect fifth,
of the golden sums that turn silence
into breath,
into bone,
into stars.
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