Poetry

Wipers, the windscreen, voice-
less but
the synchopation, tribal—
Someth ing is drumming, deposits
its bond, nameless, a weatherscape—
Hands, paws, hooves, fins…
each not a mimicry just
functions air & terra firma
swish with the sluice work of.
No wonder
I love
the geography
of bodies, our
squabbles never
eternal severance.
Could life die due to a mood?
The wheeling, galactic axis
pivots on waiting
for global recognition—
We You Me
are one as grass, stars & fish,
all incapable if ever really being
each other but
glimpsed still perhaps
where arcs pass & expand.