some limitation collapsing in on itself,
(supernova alone; sudden expansion and falling into density)
some fruit hanging and growing sweet,
and sweeter,
lost in spiral tendrils of remembrance and telling,
a small fist gripping something smaller
a photo, laced over with the webs of imagination,
growing out into the space allowed and overflowing
taut skin, stretched and bared in denial of these secrets,
as if there was nothing we could not know.
how silent will the realization be, after all these shouts?
how dizzying the solitude -- hanging fertile
on the vine
in the empty green umbra of leathery leaves?
ideath, from the poetics@bard.edu days, 1996ish.