Jazz echoes about the rondures of the cavern
The surface air pulses past cool, as my blood warms
I’m being led by a curious young man I’ve been writing
The bevy of picture-postcards enchanting my whims

I pad barefoot into a waterfall basin
Lit only by the muted tangerine rind of gas lamp,
shedding garment and silhouette to wet rock,
his breath amplifies across my form, as wet ink soaking into page
swimming in a restless descent, and forgotten edges

his fingers sprawl as ferns about my form in a glen,
tucking about my frame, and
dipping me comfortably further into the mud
he’s pressing my form into the pulp of the cave
scrawling ephemeral post-cards with my frame