High Tide

The moon drips

skitter bugs,

on dusty beams

skating surf,

–sandaling bare feet

that climb Escher stairs

carved in castles

made of sand,

and built on rock.

 

Humid air without breath

conceals–

Human hands without

you

its sticky close duct tape

of overwhelm

progressive…

 

Untested stars

beckon

flicker and fade

with confounding

autonomous energy and

my skin

 

my skin!

 

grows too tight to bear.

About Charron's Chatter

I bring to you an arrow, whole, Use it, or break it, But if you choose to take it --Know-- With it also, I will go. © Karen Robiscoe @1992

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