L’Autre Zone

Blue and green and beautiful

in the cracks, the crevices

that hold the quiet light.  Spill

the cup of skin up, out of your hands,

bathe it in the soft sheen of what

we do not know.

If you can pool into my eyes,

do it, come now, pull out from

the pages.  Curl into the heat

and lean into the offering

of flesh, beads of clay

fashioned from the stem

of language.  Inside the veins

of what we will become, we find

a window, the morning sun dripping

into the eclipse, last tendrils of moon

woven from our fiber.  Secrets that beat,

beat, beat, until flesh is gone.

            In the cracks of the imagination, the physical is only real in so far as

             the imagination is physical.

               

                                                                                         

                                                                                                                             photo by Layla Blackshear