THROWN TO THE MUSES
Not beauty necessarily but convulsive.
Her clone on crutches abruptly beside me,
as if some messenger from that other realm,
slurred and pointedly without perspective.
The message delivered, I suppose, but
what exactly is it? A demonstration,
perhaps, of theyr rarefied abilities,
the sheer immensity of theyr access?
So events occur to know each other.
Theyr music plays through us. A complex
caterwaul of sound and furry silences.
Sacred instruments make them nervous.
The production of meaning meant to
maintain a state of perpetual arousal.
A smile passed from mind to mind in
the curve of her from stem to stamen.
The evident attraction of skin for skin
involves implicitly. Resistance wavers
whenever the thin line of static shivers
(visibly). Cells communicate covertly,
coded call and response to threshold
excitation. These are the secret lives
of signs. The twinned worlds entwined
in flesh divined. Not to be confused with
the audible click of metalinguistic crickets
or the double articulation of time
's voices (whose mandibles sort poetic
quanta by penumbra and pale moonlight
pincers glint in, hint at horn's origin).
Swanbone and the worn signature
of ancient fingering. Bending sand
and smoulders. Nomad omenclature.
The micropoetics of the situation
desires an explanation.