Lunula

satori eludes me in the heat of suns known

only to be the rising gold tide at the hilt of

a thumbnail. each of three eyes has turned

inward to find the ability to create an outward

substance and the earth beckons. this is the

cursed nature of present man who labors in

search of mundanity and strata. this is the

cursed nature of present man who labors for

ideals barely visible beyond the immediate.

hold my hand. please. I am not afraid of this

or any plea or dignity--it does not exist. only

cohesion as the universe expands in a

shuttlecock manner. we fumble in the last

of these moments to open the flowers of

an artichoke and close the vacuum space.