Still it
rains on,
Buckling
river rises -
Tonight the
owls are silent.
Memory
Saturated
earth cannot hold more.
Breath
At the
tipping point, both this and that.
Swollen
clay
Slick to
the hands
Now raising
a cup formed by process
Born of
transference
A voice
formed.
Forming a
beat
A pulse of
emptied intervals –
Crossing
the meniscus between worlds.
So, you
come to find source;
Touch the
base,
the fine
hem,
the original
face.
Yet, time
rolls within itself
Fractal light
implosion
the falling
veil,
the breath
of vision.
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