The soft white
swirling flesh,
made of light,
made to divest
the deep darkness
that pulses
beneath your chest.

The simple sparkle,
the slipping droplet
that falls off of this
darling flower
of free association.

The tender yearling
licking salt,
seeking some
simple sating
of its primal hunger.

The placid pool,
of poorly lit
sitting liquid,
until it is
pierced by
something
falling from
the night sky,
and its surface
succumbs
to the chaos of
constant ripples.

I dip my toe
in a spot
I do not know
searching for
some inspiration,

and this is all
that I get
in for looking
for it.