The Magnetism of Almost Touching
I.
My fist opening, a cave's mouth.
Dark milliseconds unravel its statements
strewn by uneven light across a skewed tablet.
I distill certainty from the sky metallic—
my eyes untarnish the evening's approach.
Pyramid stones shaded, just so;
bodies delicate with ambiguity.
I reach for them with my mindglove
Yet touch them not.
It is enough
to stretch out my hands
and watch the shadows mingle.
II.
Emerald has become flesh's color
exploding from grey sarcophagi.
I cannot unclasp the covers
to inhale must and words.
Sealed by inscrutable decrees,
gaurded by cerulean trident.
Histories in bark-ridged tombs,
Larvae in amber of gold.
My fiery digits take flight,
Tendrils that spread and recede.
Approaching the heavenly vault,
Retreating in umber and mead.
III.
This forest is an astral museum
with three-pointed, five-pointed creeds;
emerging through space into rhythm,
painting the brown into green.
The dendrites of branches and roots
hurl at me sparks and dissent.
For all my perilous treaties,
They trade me an elaborate lens.
A mirror of moss for a bauble,
a mineral path for a tome.
The forest exchanges my crate for a cradle,
I trade it a hut for a home.
IV.
As the falls strike leaves
With carresses of air,
As the night's shroud falls
to blanket the stones,
As my heart's dew drops
but halts before morning,
So my hands try to grasp
yet fail to take hold.
Poetry
Written by
on 5/14/18
.
Photography by
Maxime Courty
.1 — "From the Cave"
2 — "Mystic River"
3 — "A Place for Dreams"
.
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