Sunday, December 10, 2006


She moves within her bone frame,
world painted across her skin.

The ocean is a saltine bouillabaisse,
but to her it is a warm current of dreams.

There's a mother of pearl koru
about her neck, but to her it seems
she wears a spiral of light.

There are moments when she seems European
in a market in Marrakech,
or on a street of orientals.

Those who pass her avert their eyes
and shift aside.

This could be the portrait of her life,
or it could be a dustbowl -
what passes for a lake
on the surface of the moon.


Blogger keros said...

i like the duality of this poem...the mixing of outer and inner till they become mixed and inseparable from each other.
Is not that the purpose of a life...a spiritual target practice of sorts?

4:28 PM  
Blogger burning moon said...

what I was trying to convey here is the contrast between what is in reality, and what is perceived by the individual.

I was thinking about moving paintings like the ones in Harry Potter, and how our bones are the framework we move around the world in and we sort of each view things through our own private porthole, as though we were looking out from our portraits. lol, a little weird huh?

4:47 PM  

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