is the poison of discovery,
the chance of dreaming
recurrent dreams as the mind
is slumbering. Death,

and the notion of death,
a stringless kite surging
up and out through black,
black night until it disappears;

and what we're left holding-

a ball of twine fastened to
a small hole punched in the wood
of a handmade spool.

1 comment:

Lewis said...

These poems, rachel
full of surprises, deeply felt
moving through what's deep of me

--Lewis LaCook