Owners are like robotics machines with many branches
And some are worn from inked art—
They cause the eyes to dance in color
Or skip into an impression made world.
I have never seen one move, but
Sometimes they grasp the arm tightly.
Fingers are when the body hole floods
And lingers through a pipe:
Then the hole is an ocean and traps
Like gilled birds underneath the blue.
Heat is when the string is lit.
It has the strength of seven suns
And can defeat the nippy notes
That hum through the air with no rhythm.
If it twists like a hook, the flats push it to
Their flesh to a placid paradise.
Extinction is when the cavity swallows—
A wound that fattens the hollow.
In the evening when the hues avert,
They crouch in corners,
And see in inked art, themselves—
In impressions, with the lights out.
No comments:
Post a Comment