A forest of hungry eyes, wind rustles the piercing branches,
Scraping the ground from time to time, in a rhythm of abandoned organs,
Nibbling at her cheeks, tracing maps along her skin, charting voyages,
Reverie dangling from the mouth like gristle.
“Isn’t it chilly here?” she whispers, though he doesn’t reply, since he cannot speak.
The great circle, aged leaves crumbling under delicate footsteps,
Withering principle supervening in layers, radiating reciprocal invitations,
Being is a matter of geodesics, hidden trajectories and
Hurried vectors pouring through lattice walls.
“Quiet! The Catcher lurks!” she cries out, though he doesn’t stir, since he cannot move.
Overlapping curved flyways, forming invisible embraces,
A network of glances, hand touching hands that touch, though,
Countless spheres amass on fingertips, quivering drops of dew,
And the Ambler’s gaze unties the knot, and weaves her way among the trunks,
Carving predetermined paths in the moist soil,
All stretching toward the same horizon.
No comments:
Post a Comment