The Next Step

I write to the still voice, the one
I can unravel, knitting yarn, rings
in trees or onions --
the cyclical beat-beat,
the wind in my hair,
as when I was young, barefoot
and pedaling until entropy
broke wide-eyed,
the fear and the living coursing
coexistent in one tiny body, I spy
the light of one soul threaded,
the camel in the needle; the thresher
and the seed, see, I walk
both sides of the granary,
the open-shut, awakened
then ignorant, co-textual
indications: being men,
being women. thing is,
I'm sick to death of my more
pastoral affectations,
I just want the growth,
something sprouting;
emergent-ascendant sexuality,
what's the matter-- tossing ships,
missing sips of morning coffee,
the last horizon slipping into
pockets where maps get hid,
so long as the green mouth
pulls itself up, answering?

Author's Note

came out in under 3 minutes.. woosh... it's a little rough.

Reviews

[Emily B]

I read it again and can't find one thing rough about it . . .

[Samuel Ferris]

i love your flow, and your effortless metaphors, and rhythms.

[Ed Hart]

you want to rush things up a little? I'll put in a word for you....

[Emily B]

it maybe could use some spit and polish, but honestly, I couldn't find one thing that seemed to hinder the flow . . . it was a walk I needed to take