by Seema N Amin
‘They believe laughter, laughter is the seventh layer…’
Soothsayer,
give me visions of the feast…
A blue-eyed horse,
spinning within five columns, such that
his waves become friction
for the eyes playing
circular stone and air hide and seek,
burgundy scabs light the night discoloration of the skin
A backless orange form, skipping through the wider circumference
is pulled back in, halfway ’round.
there are blindfolds, and the End-Times
are as light-footed as night watchmen sheds
imagined, or dogging cars, or tigers,
in cemeteries by cathedrals, where monks
burn a slow fire, orange-flamed blood-leaf
And
I prefer to watch your back,
tied to me by a blindfold loosely done,
in a whim we’d conspired to
stretch, like one of those lunges
over some pole, bench, obstacle,
horse that you are,
and the seventh layer of the soul
drops in temperature, to the green-black
sweet-heat similitude in coolness,
and I let the goose bump scarf down,
Your face a gray flame-the body is in danger of
undergoing a change of state, going gas, going water,
I tickle from the leaking pulse
of the loins, to the dry throat
inside the hobo’s sex-sun straddle,
that knows penetration is an illusion.
I race you to the street.
I end in an infamy thrice removed from, but
like, peace.
