literature

Goddess, God is

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Literature Text

sensitive fingertips
on what is or isn't
                  solid or solidified yet...
gasping for air
              at the forest's edge
and, relieved, we are saved from such a
                                       fall
into the cloud cover reflected on the river bed.


ocular reversal
 we can only look up from below
and see the inversion of what truth
                             we may know
or think, or write with our
 sensitive fingertips
in the lonely snow.
even signposts must be dug a hole.


fire glows in the cold
 for fuel it consumes the air the wind blows
and the pure reflection folds and ripples
 until the moon lays low on the puddles
     at our ankles sensitive toes
   frozen it seems in the dirty
     snow slick boots of the road
fire melts at this darkness on the
 water and the sky
   dancing between forms and
     eroding the tree bark to blush
       the night's shame rank and file
     into infinite may-never-be-knowns.
sensitive fingertips
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