Perigee

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The tip of the egg
resonates its proximity
in diaphanous fibers of albumen
spreading as a hand, as fingertips.
It strokes the miles left to go
as one cups a Merlot alone
at ten in the evening.

Even the sun refracts from this place;
its prisms belying its schizophrenic nature.
The closer I get,
        the more repellent I become.
Maintaining this orbit, even while in perigee,
I disintegrate into light and lack and habit
     of want.

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4 Comments
tazz317tazz317over 11 years ago
WHILE IN THE OZONE

time and shapes evolved. TK U MLJ LV NV

unpredictablebijouunpredictablebijouover 15 years ago
tight and well written

You have strong images and powerful ideas here, and a nice mix of the mundane and the meaningful. A very well done piece.

AnonymousAnonymousover 15 years ago
Nice Poem!

This poem was mentioned in Monday's New Poem Review. Thanks for the read!

normal jeannormal jeanover 15 years ago
:)

This is hauntingly beautiful. Seems so sad though. Will there ever be an apogee to complement?

nice read on a foggy morning

NJ