body

upon a green leaf
stretches the arm of relief.
finding myself new.

the air is hot, thick,
spread on my lungs like butter.
burnt like blackened toast.

a red hat riding
on top of a red road bike.
legs like pink pistons.

swallowing cut glass.
knives cutting from the inside.
world shrinks to the pain.

the sun hot as lead
burns a hole through my bald head.
assuming i’m dead.

electrical nerves
pulse bits of light through atoms.
i, fleshy robot.