Disoriented by the images,
the colors bouncing off her, all the lines
and shapes that make the picture. The abstract
recedes above the pasture, I can see
the lines her calves make in the water of the
bayou. I can smell her sex as it moves
through the air like pollen. I can't figure
what the limits of her are, the mathematics
governing her motion. Love makes nonsense
of me daily, is the maddening agent
that ends my life. What is it I am becoming
in this whirl of movement? Did I start
as a coherent image only to descend
into a chaos that is enlightening?
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