In the dead sweat of a summer night
I live on the verge of things before they
find a beginning
as if I were already
waiting for their time to stumble into me.
Oil flows on water.
Paint flows on canvas.
Ink flows on paper.
Where do you flow?
What if I pursued you into the night?
What if I could translate fear into a
thing of dust and ground glass?
What if I clawed away your mask
to reveal an acid-breathed skin-shriveler,
crippled with darkness, for whom terror
is only a crutch, fear the only truth?
How would you reward me?
Touch me and feel the flow.
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Exposed yellow flow-ers petals are to be picked and placed on a mat to shine fearsome growls in the dead of night that flow out of lions teeth and the fear goes away sharply stained by bites that chew through the skin taunt tightly together a sinew in time, a knot in rhyme to flow into laces ties that bind faces ripped together again.
The movement of life force, directional yet amorphous at the same time.