Difficult is the coming
of my goldfish words
snared in mind’s pincers,
bawling in silence,
fumbled with distraction,
savage, dreadful.
I long for the capering
locomotive sentence
bathing in a corolla,
seen through the sharp
black corona of my pupil,
drowning in all too much colour
in the moment’s crust,
adding the doings and who-ings
of a life unspectacular
but, in a hair’s breadth,
I can be the god
of the little clockwork motions
in a slight finger’s tremble
and a tug at the shirtsleeve.
The machinations of now
and then in a rose covered grave,
plots, intrigues, ruses and tricks,
to life in the moment, a perfect bubble.
The mindfulness of breathing,
now is the eternity.
–Art by Barbara Florczyk
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