I can’t figure what it is
from such a peculiar entrance;
so nebulously alluring
that I feel I need
to know more and yet
I fear its gravity.
I’m going to change, and
I know it because
my skin is tight.
I feel cracks giving-way
to a tender bareness
and have lost my day-sight
to the cloudy haze of a crusted
over fibrous layer, silver-grey
and blind;
I search from behind
the eyes. An ethereally
translucent foot pushes free
from the hardened burden,
the dried shell I’m leaving
behind, as I step forward.
The desiccated membrane
gives way and I see it,
so nebulously alluring;
the looking-glass magician
takes a bow and the curtain
drops, red velvet, silky-shine,
heavily laden with fringe
to cover that most delicate
organ beating
in my chest —
such a deceptive arrest.