Listen
to its
governing by beating
with blood
and oxygen
circulating
back and forth, to the brain,
sorting out
our identity’s subtleties
like thin
rain.
Listen
in here, to
the hues of feeling
where a
redness so readily soars,
in here,
somewhere where
we say “innermost”
and “desire”
and where
it’s so easy to drown.
There is a
hush when we really
turn into
it, sunflowers turning
their own
gaze into they own
stem,
petals, head and more into,
more into,
more.
Or so it’s
what
the masters
say, their skin
spiced in
sea haze.
Listen
to the
beating and its roar
growing
inside
more and
more
and the
masters’ breathing eyes
digging
backward inside
beating
with the beating,
unhurriedly,
obediently,
until they
whisper a final
“in here”
and disappear.
1 comment:
in here, somewhere where
we say “innermost” and “desire”
and where it’s so easy to drown.
This is an absolutely lovely passage - and not the only one. Thanks for this.
(So we both post a poem ending with a disappearance! How synchronous is that?)
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