wet rises

curved love . spilling . unfalling . one drop
takes the longest time . wet rises
embracing surfaces are things  that close
in on their planes . you could never tell

they come clean . naked and waiting
the manna of their openness tuns visible
tangible . drawn in by the curve . for the
longest time they have refined  and  peaked
over the tastes and feelings as their offering

skillful in staying on the way . the one way
just as the spills keep unfalling
the two will meet . even if anticipation and
intimacy are past sequences

Re: wet rises

its taken me a couple of reads to grasp this poem (and truthfully i still haven't - chalk it up to personal baggage). here's my interp:

to me this 'curved love' is/is like the sky and the wetness (that is 'unfalling' or evaporating, as it were) is an expression of love? or perhaps the remnants of love, returning to their source - much like water from the sea evaporates or is 'drawn in' by  clouds.

on a third reading, this 'unfalling' seems somewhat a 'drying' or 'dehydrating' of something that was once intangeable - maybe someone's ability to express their love….

then again, it could always be a different way of looking at precipitation and how the earth gives up its “wetness” to “curved love” also known as the sky

the more i type the more i confuse myself, so i will stop….

in any case, an interesting read.

Re: wet rises

hi sidney , thankyou for your perspective . interesting images – wet sky , spilling drops and an unfalling drop from the sky – its improvised gravity . gives me a bridge, to walk over to reprise :–)

wet rises as i saw it is about a drop of water . and its equation to other surfaces and insides. spilling not falling makes the drop open out and onto these surfaces.
& yes its an expression of love . of mind shifts, not looking at nature in just an empirical/physical sense . if that adds to mind its a rush….

reprise

mountain place . she walks out . wet  sky
uncold in all that ineffable room to vent its
pleasures . she reaches . spilling drop slows
down . she can touch it but it turns blue

she sees . its covert , with images of  many
shades , orgasmic in its complexity . they
find her distant places . what happens  in
there can only be told  as well as she can
read them . or *as* she reads them .  this
must be more than love

where she comes from , she doesnt short
change the read or reduce breathtaking
displacements . there was news of a stray
entity . whose insidiousness was no  stray
matter . many  raw planets had to show
themselves to host this infliction

she smiles as she makes out . all these
dudes . theres a thread she can put her
finger on . invisible but manifest . one day
they will find themselves in just that spot

in the thread

turner

revisiting that spot . circumscribed
by her sleepless inventory . the list
written undercover, through the scroll .
she can turn a line when she lies .
so still . death wasted in its own rush

if she was a cleanser , if second
guessed , she played some
wishes from the inside. outcomes
slipped into , revealed in isolation
not one not two. it goes both ways

but then when she admitted it to herself
she was shakti . if she stayed on land ,
she can be a nobody . in heady architecture ,
traceless in infinite identity . the fall out from
sleighted realms will have to reach here

she did no wrong . she left when things
were just right . she can let the spot open
out to the whole nine yards in anxious joy
if shes a player, its only so, all kinds
of hedgers can turn the same wheel

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