Gut Feelings

If I trust my head. Twisted vines creep to an unreachable sun but knowledge sits in roots tangled, knotted in biased hugs. Amber words dissolve in a salty river where flames steal my bark and flesh. I swing between birds, or are they stationary fish? See my body lost in glass ferns, too fragile to free. If I trust my heart. Violent spirits shake yellow chrysanthemums growing from my chest. Soft painted jealousy flirts with earnest rage. I bow to reason without a compass — east knows no submission. I try to lose myself in hopeless desire already lost in autumn showers. If I trust my gut. Careless fingers push an empty stomach to pluck lucky entrails. A hunch ripped from home finds solace in another, led astray. Artless foretelling, foreshadowing from shaken bone and divine intestine. I cannot feel this flesh that is not mine. An omen, if I trust myself.