If you press a scalpel just so —

between the tendon’s grip of bone, or

fascia’s papery webs,

the integrity of a joint

or a cavity 

gives way. 

The form before you is 



to slide like leaves

swept skyward, 

carried off stem over blade,

tumbled by windy tongues

of an endless maw.


Still, the day brightens around you,

a beckoning 

in the trembling, 

inviting you to


fall up

into the brilliant throat 

of something new


where the light uncontained


like a deeply rooted bowl,

and that which holds all things together



with every sinewy leaf

you let 


Categories: Uncategorized

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