Phlegm and feces
run thru the old corpse
stirred by breath even now
to flop around a bit
and make some snorty sounds,
so up and out I go.

Still acute, the senses –
every microphenomenon a wonder,
prismatic glory of light and matter.

Two friends in a mirror dance!
Wet black colors!
The flick of a squirrel!
A childs crystal voice!

An eye on the go,
casting for bites of beauty,
every few steps another coruscating gem.

Yet to the other animals,
just a big slow object to get around
is all I am.

Was I ever a beauty myself?
I must have been, once,
lost in the fog of days long gone.

I now:
a wrapped up sack
of tired old guts
by waves
of shining