Flicks
of Hair
Trevor
Reeves
grass,
running underneath one's feet
and the real deep blue, sun,
colour of a lion's mane,
tautology of eyes
meeting in mid-sky;
there
are no one-way streets
in these clouds. We are forever
meeting our own angles
frequenting our own
patches of secret earth.
The
way you flick your
hair, like that;
indeterminately wrinkling
your little bird's egg eyes;
blue-speckled:
you
are of nature, in the
middle of the
hourglass, enraptured and
enlightening
me; pouring down
through me,
into my very soil.
The
2River View, 1_4 (Summer 1997)
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