Saturday, August 09, 2014

between

While we peer
through limpid fingers,

the sun-star
bombards us
at the speed of light.

The night may remind
our throbbing cells
of their past lives
as phosphorescent
meteorites.

We throw words
at the spinning,
we name our breath.

We are always
empty cups
being filled
at the intersection
of nothing and something.

2009

The Promise II, Madeline Von Foerster, 2012

From Dreams and Divinities.


2 comments:

bluestorm said...

"We throw words / at the spinning, / we name our breath." . . . fabulous!!

Iulia Flame said...

You are so kind. :-) xx

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