All that has come to be, and is yet to be
looms beneath the surface
of the Milky Way’s gums

Rooted in matter
that must be pushed through
some pink and red mess.

White bone comes forth from darkness
as gravity’s pull chips away at flesh.

The galaxy grinds it’s jaw
to shift plates,
move moons,
and twirl worlds around with it’s tongue.

The stars, flecks of calcium,
are sprayed by quiet breaths.

Pools of spit
are oceans
sometimes swallowed by a
stranger’s throat
like some black hole,
to be used again,
somewhere else.

—By Karly Fish