one mystery of the breath: it does not hover
in the body but spirals
Gillian Conoley, Peace
Baby clutch. She spirals, she. A sign. Blue fresco. Happenstance. Such infant kicking, thrash. What worries me are puddles, wave-pools, orbits. Hearsay dives. Archaeological one-piece. Was her mother’s. Anchor, breathing. Weight. What a beautiful baby. Uncompassed shore, ill-painted palms on indoor brick. Sub-tropical. She turns her head. A splash, a joyous bark of laughter. Voice, but not a language. Flesh, combustion, water wings. Aloft. Astride, a barrelman. Metal whistle, twirl. A habit of. The featured, sunlight: artificial. Splash, the open palm. Unmistakable. Her cherub smile, scowl.
Photo By: CatDancing