Poesy #3

In the language we speak
we tangle sparks and static,
netted in a lattice cradled,
an obscure fabric
knitted of slime and blood.

In our songs, our hope and love,
crackles the unnameable charge
of the undecipherable thunderstorm.
The meaning ricochets against stubborn skull,
the depth and breadth die out at the skin.

Here we dance, here we revel,
here we lay together weaving limbs and sweat
and invisible desperate pleas.

Here
writhing networks humming
as mysteries of caught lightning
snared in precarious webwork
we hurtle
we laugh
we tumble
towards the sizzle and pop

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