a tweaking of the laws of proxemics
between a mother and her adolescent
daughter, fingers part
in a subconscious distancing of
what they have shared and
what they could have shared;

and the spaces blossom through
a half-inadvertence, oxymoronically
slick like the afterglow
of graphite;

where there was once a winding
spiral staircase she poses, symphony
of an orchestra of violins faintly, so very
faintly tuning themselves to the whirr and whine
of an aging door;

where poetry wrapped itself
around the world, oceans cave
into tornadoes, vestibules grow
increasingly narrow

we remember the litter that was not
contain it in a singularity, fall:

someone steps on 
grasshopper, non-tragedy
as convex mirrors reflect
twisted things and prose.

1 comment:

isabella said...

I really love the imagery

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in the wake of light, your words bring me more(please, do leave your fingerprints behind, so I may relish the image of our hands after you go.)