Centrifuge
blood liquid
still point
where there is no turning away.

Morning arcs
bright flickers
tree fingers
shadow of a nuptial moon fading.

You are last years leaves
and tomorrow’s blossom
the place where tongue still lingers
curves around a full mouth
blurs the edges of feeling with sensation.

You are the mountain’s spring
falling troubled into genuflecting river
searching for a space to soothe
the churning of unanswered metaphor
with warmth.

You’re the shadow behind every door I open
a shaft of sunlight striking dust from musted hands:
we are the light inside the silver sided mirror
our faces merge in contemplation
we touch our netted palms to one reflection,
then turn aside and walk these jaded streets alone.