regular, coming so far, so funny, so sore
limbs you don't know why still
turns only too ready to climb uphill.
On the rocks, out of the box, nowhere,
spaces into the known unknown layer
of a golden dipping silhouette, you groped,
in trance, as sense sensually sloped,
somnolent in the wake,
into dances that refused to fake
a sensibility you see with pricks
turning black or white with tricks
pulling body and mind together;
you went up light as a feather,
and down like rough weather,
with no direction to find, you flew
riding a floating joy, long overdue.
Intermittent, spasmodic your way,
with fear of nothing holding sway,
twisting, turning, whistling, whipping
shrieking, shunting, grunting, sweeping,
purple patches in your trail, softly home
dewy eyed, left aside, a little gnome.
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