After Malouf Flights, 3

1 September 2013

Our bodies are breakable. Supplicating themselves
at the cliffs of our daily
sorrows they smash, high
and wide the waters of our thoughts.

Time stays silent.
Witness:

We are blinded. Folded.
We step
in, step out.

We wait. We exhale
salt. It is bitter on our
tongue. We wait for
the next sweet moment.

We are monsoonal. Always
threatening to break our horizons

we pulse under our filamental
surface. We are spectacular
disruptions of tissue, explosions
of grape, cherry, grey, and the
yellow-green of our self betrayal.

By the time we have
our bearings –

our fields, scarred
and raked, studded
with half shorn trunks
of where, who, what. Everything,
everything,
we once thought –

we blink naked
to the clear-cracked
sky, to watch the arrival
of our true nature.

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