This transit is chugging along

The slime from the womb of an animal
is what we are,
nameless as death,
murky as life,
that we should call it something between
monster and majestic Lord
sprawled on a filthy floor.

In a bathroom she moans
with a mantra
too young,
rusty waves rising in
deja vu, squeeze, contract
she sweats, she drowns,
a universe is dying
a universe is being born.

(In a dumpster a figure in tatters and mud is singing
Marriage of Figaro)

A wailing dune, a falling star,
a shrill cry echoes from afar,
from a window world,
he plunges into a dirty light
with no memory of life:

He’ll freeze to death tonight.

The slime from the womb of an animal
This transit is chugging along.

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