He moves slowly.
Brow wiped against triceps brachii.
Dewy and salty. Deep inhalation.
Restrained.
Wild hairs blowing in the humid breeze.
Turned inward. Toes pointing towards the other foot’s toes.
Face downwards, yet eyes casting up.
Observant. Quiet spoken.
A grin never breaking into a toothy smile.
Piqued.
Piquet.
I, coaxed under the quilt, am.
Say the following, aloud, three times:
~guilt~
~less~
~inning~.
Through open shutters, panes, and, screens does the breeze force a shudder from these
curtains.
And, you try to wait for the good ones to come; but,
meanwhile, you wonder,
Is the barre too high?
He could pull a hamstring, stretching,
while I’m stood there,
en pointe, waiting.
(((Suddenly, the tweezers I lost,
they appear(
after a lengthy diatribe) delivered to Know~One)
Socratic Circles….)
…I told you I’d try)
((( (…) )))
And, like a moth, I wait for his light to turn on;
yet,
were they to read this, each might think it’s about him.
Bringing the medicine of chaos, I return.
Full and hollow like a cæctus tree.
WrittenCasey 