Slowing my advance
the smell of fresh dew
on bending grass,
deeply rich, as pubic loin,
naturally beaded,
morning fruit,
coming up into me.
Passing chance is a pedestrian
at another drink,
to sup, to taste—to figure:
the luck.
Beyond what affords
the wires and cords,
the libations of vibrations—in pocket and lapel;
consorts of sorts:
eyes to see to tell,
caught in a room, in a shell.
Here it is running between sharp teeth,
between punch in and punch out,
the texture expands on the tip of tense tongue,
to drown the drain
in the welcome back of a dry desert throat,
where we once spoke.
Yesterday’s sun had taken all proof
of what there was to own:
the house, the car, the student loans, the mobile phone.
Every drop of hydration
was taken from placement.
And then that orb went away
with the dying day,
to blackest night,
to come back and drop what it lacked,
to give what it had taken away.
These globules,
these droplets of life,
here on fine grass, stay,
for all to gleam as they pass.
Seeing yard for a blade.
Seeing hours for a wait.
Bearing witness to its presence,
to this small existence, to little menace.
Taken its smell,
dew on these forms,
forms on this ball,
lit up by yellow orb,
spinning, rolling, coming down,
into finite points,
magnified and reflected,
encapsulating each particle universal,
directly into you.
A most minute sense,
and worldly.
To think,
it was almost unbearable
to enter that building
on this day.
Image may be NSFW.
Clik here to view.
Image may be NSFW.Clik here to view.
