a
Starting by hands and counting /
all the way to the liver /
all edgy corners been baptized by the sun/
all corny edges named by anti-seed/
this solitary status /
unique, in its substance
as a virgin mother of light /
stays still and passive/
incompletely divided/
b
this dark shade /
as the intangible tread /
with hypoxic screams and fumes and shawls/
thrives all along my spine/
but I quit/
the death of orgasms, after all,
is it not their pure realization ?
c
from lively nipple up to suspension
-where my lucid soul
re-diffracts-
I’m getting focused/
but my mirror is such a poor case:
there is n’t anything there
to reflect
d
by punctuation up to the time ribbon/
ports, any given second-dream
shrilles/
to inter-shape/
but that’s in vain/
I did not peek any side at all /
neither when we arrived the cedar trees
nor even the baobabs /
photo: Paul Caponigro (b. 1932), ‘Avebury, Wiltshire, England’ 1967
