Careening and braking towards
dotage, tossed and turning on
the night of the Flower Moon,
I was illuminated,
lying flat on my back in my own bed.

A long-fermenting treasure cache
locked away in my brain vault
was breached by worm
words squiggling to
unhinge the rusty lock
from within, gang busters

Bursting forth, like
    Athena from Zeus’s head,

Gushing forth--
    a Trevi fountain,

    an opened fire hydrant,

    a lanced boil,

Soaking the page,
    resisting evaporation,
    insoluble.

A premature burial, the

corpse popping up,
    bright-eyed,
    before the lid is shoveled
    shut.