A garden of consciousness


I see her approaching
With a glass of cold failure

The sinking sun struggles to promise a tomorrow
No words escape; it even fails to form a face;

Her eyelids though, hold
a murmuring conversation between themselves
As she offers the glass
To my blinking hands.

My lips have sought to be welded to the soft moist ecstasy that are hers,
I cannot surrender to gravity this cup with which I am frozen
Below on the ground, worms thick like slugs but pink wriggle into the earth
With a song of the day the Moon left
To live and orbit Mars.
Not like slugs but like lips,
My lips
I wait for them to crawl up my legs, my body,
To return like the Moon


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