A well awaits a where:

A chameleon concealed with an eye all askew

Stone-lidded rims ascending terrace rings.

 

Note the warm jellied tongue:

The interstate vanishes between hairless lips,

A boisterous room silenced in a slurp.

 

You imagined you were:

Hand-painted celluloid in the breath of a frame

Liquified by the belly of that gaze.

 

Foolish to have assumed confidence in a where:

Tailights, the attractive ends of women

Only winking will-o-wisps.

 

A sacrificial slip; a cry, a fall:

Fetched to that iris altar

To nightscape and a boulevard lined with lampposts.

 

Gravity’s inversion mirrored in energy:

Every little lighthouse radiating

A reassuring cold.

 

As if to celebrate an arrival:

Suspended paper motes

Drift in eddies intimating a jostling crowd.

 

Yet the street is silent, still but for a pale wind:

An air at home in caves.

Your footfalls provoke a hungry slant.

 

The patient churning of intestinal muscles:

Hastening your orbit around that sluice

Beyond the lamplight’s edge.

 

Joseph Byron Bennett

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