fairytaled proximities

it is the once-upon-a-time of if,
the asking glance of if-not-now-then-when,
the if-not-why-then-what of it
that trips a crimson pool of thought
into a quiet afternoon, that drips blood-red
across the delving dusk of dreams-too-soon,
spread thin like dark against a rising moon



it is the gaited reason for
a listening child's fairytaled wait
not wedged within a Camus-ed shelf
of semiotic potions pressed to fate
but laced with windswept laughter, mother-near
yet chasing footless halls of air past prismed minds,
a hue that tumbles prepositions into burning blue



it is the blessed snare of sun that trips a spear
into the readied rhythm of its tune, the words
that shout the wind along in cherished haste
as if to beg the tale told again,
to pull it near the tangled knots
that finally slip apart into an easychaired epitomy
of grace that frames its fragile terms of flight



it is not Heideggered, nor Socrates-ed
to want to hear the tale told again in Vermeered light
as if to shine a velvet pause upon the face
within the play of time infused into a look,
its substance layered on the storyteller's skin
in tender modulations and prolonged proximities
of eyesandmouthandchin