Monday, October 7, 2013

Coffee with Empedocles

You drape your spare beaded words,
earthenware gems strung on the sinew

of phrase like the gentlest snare
about my birdbone wrist
and I am
aflutter with adornment, soaring
with desire to lose fingers in the twisting locks
of a dappled forest, feel the ancient trunks
bend to my shape,
listen to tales of origin—stories
of stories of how stories came to be,
to taste the flicker of burning diamonds
with every parting of your lips, to drink
the cool green quenching light
that pools in your eyes, and discover
in this stilled ether over a Sunday ritual
how with little more than lyric
you have located the element, and stirred
the belief in an unlatched cage door.

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