(Will return 6-12).
I die of thirst, here at the fountain side.
Our eyes idolize visibility.
The dark figure in the distant oak at midwinter’s dusk: an owl.
The darker figure on the news, sitting, stunned: in bloodmist.
The curved figure dancing on a screen: pelvis on fire.
Our eyes dilate wide as portholes.
Is it not absurd to plea with an invisible force?
Plea to gravity as the skier somersaults towards a jutting boulder?
Plea to the hurricane’s breath?
Plea to the wound deepening in the soul from life’s edge?
What madness religions’ blaze,
Singeing knees and scorching spirits.
Envy those who live in visibility.