The Haptic Sensibility
A dream site where a heart beats
Beneath the rattle of parched leaves.
After Cupid, Psyche begins to grind
the left-over mice bones of her dreams:
from chip to dust, from done to undone
a small pyramid of gray loam forming
heavier than a moor fog, finer than shaved nutmeg.
Her fingertips meld tears and dust into a small basin:
…while Aphrodite, her none too happy
mother-in-law, readies herself for cocktails…
That night, Psyche empties herself of regret.
The basin’s clear as the Aegean.
She drapes the skeletal sapling of her boy-soul
over the sea, securing him with strands
of her strawberry hair to create a bridge
his battered sternum the platform from which she dives
God’s crushing ache in creating paradise.
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