driven by a tempest, or at least a rainstorm, writing strikes

hello words
you are appearing like auto-
magic beneath my eyes and finger-
tips, like kisses' lips
in my mental space
I'm a basket case
but at least my hips
support and trace a graceful swell
between myself and
whatever else
like sleeping, tucked
birds, these words
slip slowly smoothly sinisterly
from my right
---in the rearview---
onto a timy page where,
unpaper though it may be
a shy mystery from my wine-
softerned grip falls
and splashes
kohl-coloured and fine
precious as well
into these thirty (?) lines
in glyphs so familiar
the semiotics can never be parsed
to the root, for a pillar
stands over them stone
and standing and ever
over, for never over it tips
but, having fell,
slips itself into erotic
imagery brought about
by speech through a screen
labial and soft bending
out of these electrons bursting forth
like Her Wisdom from
and unworthy brow
to enter in and once gaining purchase
reverse, guage, and magnify
all the thoughts I allow
and do not allow
will come by and by
back to words



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