Shadow TheatrebyLauren Hynde©
Yesterday I sat
in the dimness of my room, thinking of the discontinuity
of moonlit shapes and staring at shattered surfaces.
It was a parthenogenetic and fissifloral thought,
induced by trembling contours like the vision of Tundalus.
It was a thought to make morning rain desirable.
A thought of perfect moonlandings in the stretched
white linen of my bed, as if dropping lithe bodies.
A thought of birds as civilized reptiles.
A veiled vision like Tundalus in his cell, while probing monks peeked
through a mental incision into his inversed images.
I always enjoyed
the improbable angels in the games of light and shadow
over the cells of a petal's epidermis.
To see a dove's wing brushing the poetry bookshelf
and weight its beauty.
To rise monoclinic and aspire to the agamic kiss.
To love the surreal, the impossible gender.
To realize ubiquity and moonlight produce trembling contours
Dewdrops have no allure.
Concrete matter holds no appeal.
All I want is to sit still in the dimness of my room
backlit by flashes of shattered cells.
I slide down the surface of things.
I'll never meet the tundra, the alimentary cladonia or
the continuous growth of algae.
I'll never know if now ended its eternal growth.
I'll never see the face of my ethereal lover.
I'll never see the face.
All I see is no more.
Only what was but never will I know the prior to my being
what I'm not, or ever will be again.
I peek through a mental incision
and my image is forever inverted
from someone else averted