New Year

I molded a clay and left it a chunk in the amazonian sun. 

Like in my lips, fissures formed a root canal or network of bones

connecting all the capillaries of the new skin to the shed with a 

strange sympathy, I crack open a thick fruit, glistening a

breathtaking idea, with a jolted heartbeat, cleansing of my

old skin and sins so that I am birthed through this fruit and the dirt

at once and burst but not quite, something close to burst.