Veins

River networks in your arms whose branches stretch out and up

Down and around like a rollercoaster

And blood courses like the little carts filled with screaming people

Cells flood the hallways and tiny classrooms

The highways and the off-roads

Of your body, as a whole

Called the atmosphere.

It is blue and green and also a bit brown (but ironically in summer

And not winter when it should be, everything dead)

It is a million colors, even some that can’t be found.

Paddling in microscopic canoes

Down and around and down and around

Through the easy crystal currents and the rocky patches

Even an occasional waterfall:

A needle sucks up the vital liquid and gives it away to

Another atmosphere in need.

Or, perhaps, this atmosphere has taken a tumble

Scraped off its bark

And now it needs healing, it needs a bandage

So the water leaks out in roaring bursts.

Abundant is the flow

Until the end of the world.

Until the tick of time tells us it’s going to dry up.

Swimming in deserts from then onward.