Skeletons tinkle too despite the lack
of a urinary tract, see how graceful
the clear liquid streams, an arc
of calcite regaled florentine.

Language is pretty much
the same way. A mouthful,
wadded ideas all
garbled up in tongue, lips,
palette and aspiration.

Sighs are so puffed and pretty, especially expelled
along necklines, anywhere there’s a pulse,
the heart of a lover’s palm, inside the wrist.

Along the long tendon of the leg
to the instep,
the sole.

With pressure to every pulse
we build energy to lift ourselves
up.

Ideas invert. They go inside-out
and in again – an endearing enduring
tickle.

Trinkets. Souvenirs. Memory
enabled. That time we had wings
before arms, when we’d soar
wildly ere twilight, low over
crisp nightfall, the winking yellow
flicker of home.

Chagall 2018

Advertisements