I dream of your translucent eyes
Raping my synapses, a thousand needles
Stunning that which they cannot picture.
Puckered platitudes pan over uproarious
And under-furnished landscapes.
Home must be a state within
If it is to be recaptured for nothing
Known could exist here.
You are a mystery, a spontaneous trip
Whereby the traveler divests himself
Of the grid and assumes the anonymity
With which nature first conceived him.
My vapid dance with death
Has given way to trampling,
Beneath my feet the blood flowers.
In the spin of an uncertain pestilence
I find myself vulnerable to forgiveness.
My seams seem to have adhered
Subconsciously to your ruined flesh.
What’s the difference you ask?
Humans have no regard at all
For their aspects and potentialities.
They speak of drowning as if they,
Still-standing, could grasp
The expansiveness of their being.