The Hot Place

Spiral slope twist circling slowly
Push time to up with gilded friction,
The atmosphere does bend to your illusion
The fragrance does will itself to you;

 

Right press can taste a moment still-

 

Tympanic beating to cell vibration
Current weft patchwork of lines to the sun
In frozen contentment that feels like water;
Embryonic weightlessness that is for few.

 

The profusion of the unequaled thrill
The breath-light whispery move to move
Wrap around and bended leaning
Of vessels that speak in things like knees.

 

Reach you say, I am not afraid.

 

-L.King/ Oct. 2002