First cold-pressed
new moon,

the madame moth
to be discovered

in the quiet meadow-

the room
where I am sleeping.

The glass eye

like water-

the shape of drowning.

Even as my body

my tongue seeks
for flavor,

the sweetness
of these depths...

the fluid

movement of
the dreamer.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

It cannot stop, this endless flow line of poetry from thee. "the sweetness of those depths' and 'the fluid downward' 'movement of the dreamer' prompts one to rise to the level of your writing, which I am unequipped to do. A reader remain (remaindered) I then, helpless before their intense unravelling ...