they who wait - who sit outside
do not know the weight
of that, which lifts a lark in summer
.... and so it was with him

show me on the stones
show me the scrape of digestion
in the belly of the dragon
show me in the burst'd bubble of the brook

feed me words antique
feathered in the patina of age
and stained with the grease of a thousand thumbs

for I can see it in the reflected eyes of orgasm
but it's touch eludes my probing heart
and I harden hear in fear
for the unembraced guest

but he has come - none-the-less
curiosity - at remove - from the mechanical act
of rising and standing and kneeling in time

and he asks me - as we leave -
why I do not burst

how can a ship so small, still float

◄ Taking Tea with Dawkins

the histories - after herodotus ►


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