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