Le paradis n'est pas artificiel …

February 14, 2005

in progress

Who am I or might I be?
The hairs left behind on the comb
once I've died? And yet still
the pulsing trick of life in me insists
that it is there and real
and in fact, the source of all
the universe I'll ever know, in my wane
human way -- the flesh insists.
And then there is the fluttering
thing -- the moth that is my
memory, intermittent -- each
wing beat a gesture, a texture,
a scent Narcissus rich
with my past's longing to exist.

Posted by Delire at February 14, 2005 05:40 PM
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