Mystical poem written 12-2-23.
In the morning of our years, An umbilicus tethers us, Raw and new and wailing Wrenched and wrestled, Thrown into being, We are torn apart Forced to be alone, Desperate for another, We conceive of love Then, meeting our gaze, Grazing our fingertips, Lips turned up at the corners Between timeless and time, Distended and extended, Swollen space pregnant with being An echo of words, We’ve heard a million times before: “I’ll be waiting for you on the beach.”
Art: John William Waterhouse, “Miranda”, (1875)