an echo of a howl, or after soup and how its served

in company of a lovely wild beast with lips as juiced and plumped as the perfect orange, in fact the whole of body ready to pulp and burst. A head of hair mixed with sunlight and dirt- a soft nest of desert-colored serpents leaning to tangle, curl, and spiral. Met in the new machinery of languages where words tuck like dreams and the tongue pulls all the curtains. Then in smoke and grapes of Spain- strangers touch to make it plain and reach to break the other’s cage, brave missed behavior breathing, letting skin explain. Our desires never die is the moral of this trail, such paths to fly our fires sail…

having waited for the stamp of an owl and given stillness and broken sleep, and dusted off with muscles sore now filled with a language and explaining of their own. shown an owl alone in a wander that night- one screech to call my eyes, then another stillness, heart-face turning, the deep looking from thin bare branches- a silent visceral vigilance…

gusts today. blue bird egg sky meeting a thick gray wool blanket slowly pulled over the sky with every wave of wind sending branches bustling. and love delivered letters. conversations with many also made of memory. this body now one long soft dub thumping itself to drum and drone, making homes of moments and names swallowed up by unrolling orchids or stars appeared like couriers and catfish amidst the cod and a watch of perfect protest telling Kairos time….

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~ by sidereal on February 16, 2011.

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