Buttered moon in blue hour. A backwards sight sitting gut-right, pinhole in the sky leading right to my tongue. Dense and weightless like salt, every wound warmed and forgotten. And when it’s like this, you are right where you belong. There is a yellow phase in your bruise, too. Spectrum from primrose to bile, call it whatever new name in your pocket today. Did you forget the way birds twinkle and chirp in only this light? The same light somewhere making wormholes and bread. You know it nose-deep and voiceless: I was here I was here I was here.