Underneath is not Below
by Peggy Aylsworth
Why trust the eye no more reliable
than touch?
I see your face, finger your stubbled
chin.
This is not where you arrive,
though
presence offers its arousal, I admit.
You are
the ripples riding on your river
my eye
mistakes for conduits. I can barely
read
the fish made holy in these waters,
translucent
carriers with fins that one day might be
wings.
Can you fathom birds?
From:
Peggy Aylsworth |
