consciousness

not so much a stream but

a torrent, discontinuously melded

by glacial tides, angled emotions;

not a new way of seeing, exactly,

but my own voice, legible.

my own small fingers,

connecting pad to roughened nail

with each of your splayed ones,

flower petals pushed closed

by a hailstorm of denials,

a firm refusal in the meeting

of eyes.

cobalt and gray,

sea-colored glass

through which you view

the dreams you thought

abandoned you at puberty;

awake but almost…

there.  The instant slips

between closing knuckles,

eluding coherence, dandelion seeds

shooed out by puffed cheeks

to sprout on the wind.

And you thought it was over.

inedit (consumed)

two fires on a hilltop:

a demand

and a hope;

one requiring only my sanity;

the other devours my soul.

Between them,

lowing, I

follow this string of crumpled words

lodged somewhere

between my stomach

and my reason for being,

take a step,

(faltered like its heartbeat)

trip and sprawl

but advance,

a druid wringing spells

out of sodden dreams

and tired of being myself,

longing just to be;

breathless, blonde and singed;

a smooth swallow; an unfurled brow.

Trapped of my own weaving,

I can do nothing

but make my way.

what the scarab saw (apotropaic)

Dying sun and broken spell

pebbled on a beach strewn

with stolen harmony;

black stone, white stone,

rounded in a ring

of some sort of significance.

On a hill above the house,

up a winding citrus-lined track,

another dying sun,

a broken scream

echoed in an abandoned grove, still citrus,

mute testaments

to what the scarab saw

crouched on a gray rock,

tokens rippled across a pond,

an ocean;

ripped through spiderwebs,

witnessed,

acknowledged,

saw

in an instant

agonies and pleasure, a

tearing apart

of something that

I used to be.