(no subject)
Mar. 14th, 2009 12:01 pm
I am swallowed in the past.
I come out at intervals to meet you;
you signal me with your eyes.
Hidden in this belly I am weaving, out of rushes, leather and coloured wooden beads,
a flying carpet of songs and no one knows that
I can fly.
When I emerge it is you who hide within me
crawling into warmth, quiescent
and so we give
and giving until we are belly within belly within heart within heart
within selves and selves. Mirrors.