How the knobs within certain doors fasten their hinges to my ceiling, during the hours of my own apocalypse; bursting into clouds.

Is this not standard for poetry?

Wits of a madwoman, how she writes the scores this evening.

That tattered bell in multitude and proportions, shimmering sequins from out, and beneath her dress.

Constellations within the drawers of the aorta full of notes that became the night.

Voice is wind swaying hands to move ships…

This is not me, it is you and I.

 

Because languid within the torso is a sea of things.

 

I was also present here reading upon frantic fluorescent fish, with a desire to swim solo, and into the eve of darkness the depths succumb to mirrors.

I see you and I; sacred water lily, carnivorous shark.

When will the mermaid return to her natural state of somber?...

 

She writes of earth and feet.

 

© Mimi Caneda Mata