the tropics, the muse

i was made of leaves.  and rock.

only i had forgotten how to look.  how

 to use my eyes and skin?  the edge

is aglow with definitions,

 fuzzy like young compositions and footsteps

 through slips.  succulence,

scary in its sudden certainty,

 then fog, then feathery wings.  turn

on the lights, it's warm like the orchids

which need no sleep.  like fire

crackling on the backs of winter coats

i am teased by cacti of winter,

flourishing.  make a roof of the permeable, 

let the melted bird perch.  not a simple nest

of illusion, this is a shadow, a reflection, a character

of hunger.  it resembles death under certain

lights, it looks like deliverance.

but where we are wounded, go there.

let the moss storm whisper strength

let the hidden spider gather secrets

sshhhhhhh

it's perfect, you snuck up, you caught it.

i saw it dropping like gilded stars,

a gliding stream of fallen thirst

begging to be seen, changed, contextualized.

 is the infinite path of chaos itself

seen in the infinitesimal pattern of movement?  what then?

to shift from far away to upclose, to leave oneself and enter.

the air, the colors, the ground.  to surround.

*listening to rachel's selenography on headphones

feb/march 2012