illogical matters in this extended universe
divided highways bridging left with right;
mechanical dragons of time on wheels
determine the days until I’m born,
while a monster of flesh leans gluttonously
upon his rigid throne.

but what I see, are two hands -
pale, translucent
alien matter not bronzed by our golden plate,
a lattice of scarlet-lace veins and mountain bones
binding long fingers to sprawling plains of
desert palm, and filigree river indents left dry.
against the foreign grain of desk,
joints lie lax and lazy, limp, like
crumbling piles of white stone on the English countryside,
glorious in their brief antiquity and appeased with God.

the thought to touch is a fleeting illusion of dust,
that is, a bygone flicker of an eyelid
which stills at once in puerile guilt;
the movement resonates beneath the mass
of tangled lifelines and tissues, somewhere dark,
where a similar movement is made unnoticeably
within folds of red-wet stains.

by Kaitlin Roe

Other poems of ROE (4)

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