Big Dump

Is it a circle or a line, I wonder, the path we walk, and is there a path, or do we float, this way and that, our limbs moving slowly in the fluid, our hair mixing and our eyes blind.

But there must be science, there’re always words – they put everything in shape, catch the melody like smoke in a jar, cutting off its edges of course, but ceasing the main.

And if there are words there shall be lines, straight and cutting; it is blasphemy to draw lines around you, darling, your black eyes bending the horizons like black holes, your fingers playing with light and your mocking smile curved, lopsided, incorrect and magnificent.

So there are waves, sometimes I see their colours and I imagine them floating up, lifting you off the ground, the haunting sounds that possess you so, continuous circles cut and pinned at their crests.

Sometimes I wonder, darling, the way you mock me with your music, right at the point when I think I am on the verge of enlightenment, you pose another problem, your silent laughter in my ear and your warmth melting all the parallels I’ve drown.

Sometimes I wonder, darling.