I draw an arrow from your eye to mine.
The thing goes thus:
A thought; a language coded by
a tiny infinity of sense reason experience;
a set of unfamiliar vital minor muscles;
a miraculously meaningful form
on a human eyeball; and then
through a thousand solid sheets of air, and then
the eyeballs receipt, the language
probably different maybe same;
and into the pastel-soft snow of thoughts,
inside the hard thing I call myself.
Did we just make love? Did I leave you
with close to what you left to me?
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1 comment:
the muscles don't move me
as much as the hands
deep fingers
sown into brackets of air
i am moved
coursing through
crude thoughts
that thing you call you
that thing you point to
in me
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