From brackish swamp water 
to skies of crystalline specks, 
I call up in delight, feet feeding leeches 
while fingertips tickle the abyss 
of stratus, tempting rain 
to tease butterfly kisses along my freckles, 
press just so on the one mole 
that will send me into ecstasy 
for living sincerely by the bald cypress tree, 
breathing true oxygen unviolated 
by mutant’s exhaust as he fights 
to be comfortable 
away from his mother’s embrace. 

What is comfort? 

Evolution parted fur from us, 
yet our monkey cousins 
can repel sucking jaws 
that pierce skin. 

Losing blood, I laugh 
for life must fade to give. 
What right have I to live, 
and not the parasites? 
What have I exchanged 
in return for my breath? Spirit is all 
and so I howl to the moon 
seen through threaded branches 
and inhale heavy damp atmosphere into lungs 
working for pure air, but a worthier struggle 
I could not find in smog-choked cities.