Eye
It is a balanced miracle orb;
a hidden spectator that shields of blue disrobe
and softly, I have been told to use it - those narcotic rubbed words;
eclectic hearts, vessels blotted -
but no one knows the half of me yet.
I find it in the smallest of days -
the circular mirror I have to grip; veins on each nerve,
tectonic twists;
and the window of a moving car; fast into the wind -
a happy eat of sun.
I have to crawl into the water’s edge,
pull the wonder of quiet craves,
the sequence of isolation
over my head like a quilt;
those thousand black hairs
where you underneath
see her body dripping like a drown of moth
wings in the moon;
carrying her through, the press of her pulse
on your lips.
There is nothing left;
my body parts, coiled pigments –
thunder-inward
cosmos needle points
of angry miracles;
red and blue
always,
always wounded
under the tip
of memory.
garside
Wed 15th May 2013 09:11
thunder-inward
cosmos needle points
of angry miracles
like this very much