Triptych

When I look at a fruit
I do not necessarily think of a body,
man or woman, or the ways to peel
or unpeel skin from flesh to get to the pith
and the rind and the seed—

And when I touch a wound
I do not necessarily think
of martyrs or saints and the light
that flayed open the lacerations
on their backs—

And when the moon passes overhead
I do not necessarily think
of the wilderness of trees whose arms
upraised might catch its hurtling
into the healthy tonic of oblivion—

 

In response to Via Negativa: Party.

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