whether the
wood grain
could attach itself
like ocean waves
without a shore
or reference
is not of question.
like our cells
are pilots-
looping arms
around arms
and flesh. I
taste sharp air
as you cook,
the onions curl
as locks flutter
in front of your
forehead, above markings,
earned. wrinkles or
horizons, a brow housing
eyes or globes-
our very earth & world
churns as the sun
returns a bright glare
on wood slats beneath
my toes. it blinds–
and yes, it glows.
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