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.