Fingers abandoned into motion
string coils, ring about, and form
this spider puzzle. They build mazes
of twine unwrapping hands from clay
and stitching hair sown out of skin.
Falling like a stream, strands
cling palms shut but soon brisk past
and some ribbon left strangled to the ground
turns to the chaos of rain. In structure it is water
and in form a lake. Motion is a temperature.
The fragments of cloth ripple in waves
stealing eyes into melodic order
its music curls off furniture to clothe. Watch
it bend and break when its air collides
with your wooden mind. Walls shroud
in the stitching, your ears melt in sound.
All is rhythm and all that isn't is tone.
An incantation resolves
ears away from the rustle. A
rustle that dissolves disturbances to
a point. Muttered notes that tangle
everything heard to a dot. Moments
come in geometric order.
A grandiosity dozes beyond a collection of
outstretched palms and bowed heads in some
deep cave of being. Half-things reside there and called
upon in dreams shroud our eyes in light.
A vision that vanishes in our grasp,
melds dust into our palms, and changes stone to glass.