Mark R Slaughter (1957)

Central to the nose
Line down

Lips
Tip the balance

Upon red
My own settle
Build

Internal tides
Heave
Flood in
Thermal swathes

Tuning intumescence

Hands firm
Soft eyes mist
Blinding out reality
We push
Take up the argument

Her eyes black in closure
Lashes long
Lending to
Her sigh in song
Ups my hell of tarantism

PRESENTLY

We cool

It settles me

Adrift now

Spirits share
An entity

Our brains
A metaphor
Of mind
Kind

A sign we know

We just

Know