MW Jaeggle, 7/12

Hand and face

 

 

Fingers clash with threads

lost in a desert of pale skin

two brown boughs –  a landmark

guarding the coloured gift of sight

locked by doors askew – ever opening

an edge splits two open pools

below a wind moves through caves

a trip lower – following an unmarked trail:

flush fingers lap at the cusp of red waves

a single line cast on an inch of canvas.

Relief bordered on the cusp of a southern cliff

all in organic symmetry

 

negative capacity:

you always had such a pretty face.

 

Promote. Poetry.
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