Raw hearts swam drowsily past
The naked sky as millions of blossoms
Fell onto the golden meadow.

He stumbled, a bright stain
Upon the glorious afternoon,
Into the light and the world and the outside.

He considered the noxiously green grass
And every childhood goldfish
For the first time in months.

He spread his fingers into the sky’s corners,
Charlatan flags masquerading as clothes whipped
Over his paper mache body.

His bare feet dug up lethargic dirt
And the wind, the born-again nymph, pulling
His body as he took his first steps into the new world.

The fire ant bumps where pricks used to be
Take root on his rosy, cherry-stem veins,
Kissed by the apple-crisp air.

The fiery harpy that is the sun upbraided him, leaving
That white-washed Bedlam behind,
No, he did not need a needle
To feel this good.