who clenched their bare knees around a whirled branch in the absence of our moons? who haggled the roots to the seeker? the light for the shudder? Spined Thing. Who was there when I emerged, but my devolved copy, now wized with so much life? she's my mother, and I am her divided by a gorge, a rope tied on both sides though, for climbing accross. Who takes off all their clothes and learns to see with closed eyes when it's warm? And if it's cold, who tapped their way out?
Night-lights dot, the blackened corridors, as the television fades to the pulse of the darkness. A choir of cricket sounds drift in with coiling bullfrog croaks, still the void is filled with rhythm; heartbeat embracing like blankets. My breath she is pure, glowing in luminescence, unified beyond concepts in innocent abiding being. Changing yet changeless, reborn and ever new, riddling like simplicity answering as a dream.
