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
you always had such a pretty face.