She
leans her two brown moons
against
the inside wall of her blouse.
My
family is,
a
long generational line of hand-me-down
ever
fine fabric makers.
Others
of my clam have the hand skills,
for
the weaving, I mean.
I,
only with the lips of my eyes from now on,
before
my juicy virtuousness is lost.
Faint memories as flooding impulses
re-blend
with strong physical cues.
I
can't see them, those moons long enough
to
satisfy or satiate.
This
same engaging tune, revived as a disguise
plays
over and over in my head
as
a humming background for extending my view.
I
am infatuated, seduced into obsession
with
the slow burn of this billboard image.
My
lips weave intentional fabric with my breath
to
be near for brown moons' proximity.
I
have acre upon acre of innocence
looking
flush against these pressing
but
faint memories.
Whole
parts of me come into a soothing light,
generated
from within but seeking closure.
I
do not now know what that truly means
but
I journey inwardly across the landscape
lit
by two brown moons,
lead
by inner forces that take me
where
I need to go
to
know more clearly, a deeper way of being.
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