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Seeing you drops me
into a roiling hot-spring (extra-dimensionally speaking) where
the insides are known to welter—their opalescent phospholipids
doing the wave at lightspeeds. Faster. Creating
a ring of light. Now the sound of light. From inside, creating
make me light
Oh the way you came towards me in that vermillion cardigan!
The color was not as fierce as your eyes! But I saw, too,
their softness behind—their yolk. And with mine I asked
as you passed me by
what would happen if I broke the shimmering membrane?
Would your water leak to blossom
the spell-bound violet amaranths that sleep their promise
in Borges’ living garden?
Or would it spill thick in crimson?
The hot sweet density tasting
like a wound freshly opened.
The taste I’ve come to know
when women’s eyes have made me light.
M P Hill
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