|Work of the Month|
An Acute Angle
There is an acute angle,
Between me and the rock's edge,
A moment's beautiful suspension,
Caught between air and earth,
My arms swing like pendulums in honey,
Slowly back and slowly forth,
Does my chest inhale then Ex-.
I am pointed like an old sign,
To the heavens diagonally,
My feet scrape the stony surface,
As I float away so torpid,
There are bulging eyes in my head,
Sending the message to my mind,
And it is received.
The edge of my lips twitch,
Rushing wind circles in the ears,
The white bottoms of my teeth,
Can be seen through the dusty wind,
My left foot abandons ship,
And slips on stone and flies.
White bone ever more revealed,
The twitch has become a jerk,
And the smile is irresistible,
Pendulums in honey swing,
And the wind exits my ears,
And cools my face,
A fine coat of dust.
The eyes are absorbing the sky,
With such soft purple-orange undulations,
But Time does not wait for its clients,
A vainglorious grasp at nothingness,
Fingers slipping in the airborne particles,
And the angle is no longer acute,
Between me and the rock's edge.
© Jack Stroud, 2011 (all rights reserved)