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...is a window
cut in the side of world,
spirit pressing nose, fingers, against the glass of body,
looking. You feel for the latch. On the other side
can be seen such a thing as grass, vibrating
busily in light, singing to itself, which is called
growing, can be seen light adhering to a plaid skirt
announcing its spectrum, announcing the act of
division into stripes, the cries of shapes, hands,
eyes, crafting the curve of time, a girl
jumps on the edge of a board once, twice, soars,
and sound, a cascade of scarves rippling
from mouth to mouth, falling in water bubbles,
and with the inrush of air through the open frame comes
the firefly world of smells blinking ineffable signals
that slip between your ribs, sticky as cream.
...is a balcony opening onto black, primordial soup
hissing and slapping, yet full of stars
layered with densening light leading to
a core of constant unfurling, closest
to what we call love.
Your shutters spread, curtains fluttering tickled by
light luminous spray, the railing you lean against, your hands
wrapped on the metal, gazing at infinite hills of water
moved and reborn infinitely, children running
along the edge with pails, passing dead starfish and kelp,
the railing there but melting into the sand
which slides silkenly into the endless
swallowing, the absolute and unforgiving thirst
of being to drink itself down, that railing held in place
only by your fear, the water combed with color,
shell and tentacle, licking the shore with bliss,
willing to wait forever.
Copyright © Judy Wyatt
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