Becoming

My lids flip like the pages of a book.
lungs jump up and down, fast
as trampoline loaded with birthday party
yet I smile while the knife is just under my throat
caressing me with its coldness.

The air is crisp and sticky with morning dew.
The night lifts up like a wail from the unhappy bride.
The second seems to be an eternity in this glossy, champaign fog
between our mouths.
I come through I’ve become in the sheets of the Earth,
Beckoning to softly dissolve to the source of all that is.