Isn't it necromantic?

From a blossom born of yellow thrusts

the thought I thought half-dead dissipates

into a moon half-shrouded in tissue clouds:

from a bronzed and milky bosom,

starved in common of rare earths,

I was in vitro once-

but it seemed to barely last.

There was a fecund goddess there

coaxing dybbuks through the maze.