BodyBy David Trame
Wanting to believe you still have time
you keep on looking in the dark forest
for the elusive damaged tips of the balance,
in the undergrowth, familiar and unknown,
with that longing in the belly
like the whales' calls, and the twitches of pain,
the pangs, the streaming thunderbolts
it gets fed with and talks to you
through the currents, nerve threads arguing,
a spider's web tingling in the sun
and the breezy silence.
They do not want to be stroked, cuddled,
flattered, they want their rights,
their just sharpened running silver blades,
cells so quickly restored, or lost.
And on the borders, the antelope's eyes
peering through the leaves, your stalked heart,
the infinity of nuances in the irises
the only way to counterbalance for an instant
the starkness of the plain outside
and, where it ends, the waves on the rocks
exploding in foam-swarms.