Lately I’ve noticed you walk around with your shoes untied.
With each step jumping rope like a child
A fighter
Or both.
To be honest I’ve had trouble discerning the difference
these days.
Such movement is purity as you glide upon your feet as
orbits.
A planet made of rice paper lanterns who’s shadows eclipse
others.
The shadow, a person playing hop scotch, bouncing through
angles as if light were coming from all directions and I swear it is.
How can it not be when we are draped in the mystery of
nuclei night upon night and how can we not be somber at this sometimes.
How macabre light can feel when it isn’t your own.
Find comfort in the oil lamp which toils.
The flame flickering as a thousand souls Brisé across an oil
slick of rose pedals
The rope swings and you jump out of habit now.
Making heights form hazards
Creating wisdom which trembles in fear of its own power
The ground vibrating gently like the bell of a trumpet
The string of a cello
Laying in wake, the ripples of red satin that you painstakingly
lay out to walk upon.
The path you leave like letters in cursive flowing from the
beginning of your fingertips up your silk debutante gloves.
Stumbles adding humanity to elements which seem to stall on
the tongue tips of robed men as you run through their hallways and into streets
where the lights
Tiny tungsten suns
Collapse upon themselves after giving all the light they can
conjure at a moment’s notice.
Your shadow splayed in all directions
A compass rose from which you pick a direction to walk
With shoes untied
A fighter.
