point of contact/lacuna

 

 

 

momentary capture leans into foreshadow. 

 

a firefly blinks          once & away. 

 

so thus

it becomes thought once

rearranged again  

when           what perplexed me fades.

 

every time it becomes a different type of letting go

 

chore of one half-turn

from disbelief to where it all started

 

like a watercolor stain  

imperceptibly

plaiting rough edges

the way eclipses       

recalculate polarity. 

 

there are no other choices when desire

is inherent           within the cellular structure --

 

even snow-laden crags blush           when it has begun

 

so the path currents take

are secondary to their precipitation.

 

i’ve no voice

to delve into.

 

past lives ripple out to lap my feet. 

 

it’s almost enough to say:

 

forget the loblolly & as for

bougainvilleas  – they’ve no sense

 

for direction             circumnutating leash catch so that          

back and forth

 

takes on yet another reverse movement. 

 

could this be what mis-remembering is like?          

 

                    the way you hit a dry patch                kicking the wind & calling it

 

star threading fragile ground --  

 

sparking a mile away

when otherwise (nothing happened.)

 

not a return

nor an evolution. 

 

your face reads the same to me

but not the recollection. 

 

if not for

the spaces within i would let my fingers dangle.

 

if asked i would say:

this is the least of the whole

  curve of shadow

where the sphere falters. 

 

 

tuning my ear to small vibrations

 

 i was fooled again into thinking

 

it was the train and not the jugular. 

for a brief moment one breath

                                                          taken. 

 

& then, something else

within the tumult 

 

moon sunk low under the horizon line.