Wednesday, April 9, 2014

Micro 1 + 2 + 3 + 4

His head tumbled
heavy and low
A pendulum
between swaying shoulder blades
like twin scythes 

His eyes were dark

and lost
and wild
with the color,
of living, aching,


His heart is dancing 
it’s doing little jumps and flips
on the upturned palm
of his out-stretched hand

It had walked out there to look at the stars

The stars make his heart dance in his hands
And so do you.


There is a new stillness,
taken root within him
like an air pocket
wandering the corridors
of a submerged catacomb


He pulls you closer
eye to eye with his humid scent
Find the path from his shoulder
through this grove of hair
to the place under his neck 
and his other teeth.

Teeth that are sharp and black

to leave a taste in your mouth
like old blood, chalk-dust
lavender and thyme

Teeth to excavate the pit

to forge the trail
between his rib-cages,
to discover the lost empire
of all his mornings

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