From viscous to liquid; a silent
eruption behind the iris;
or when or from where.
Do you remember those mornings,
the breathing trees observing a
moon fading & sun bleeding
across the sky,
linked with mine?
How time dilated &
the gaze was so benign?
later & nostalgia sharpens that strange
blade: a weapon that leaves no trace
except for a particular posture;
eyes seeing only spectral projections,
the way cats seems to see
into some hidden distance.
From liquid to viscous;
the cat is not vicious, the blade
our parallax view has changed &
me & another for you.