Cleaning fish

If I irradiate the flesh and
the fingers I strip myself to the bone key
turning atmosphere against the degrees of Time
sinking me with every step
of my breathing.  
Think of the skits of stargazing
I would unlock by simply forgiving God for his wrought
and removing his muscled shoulders from my imagination.  

Let the infinite fall of dreaming,
what scholars deem the cosmos, set in.    
I could forgive the depths of sleep for attempting to
spread wings where shoulders caved.    

I could Even be saved.