Coil III

(with Eric R)

Your breath off that morning's mountain ridge
     tunnelled colored wind
     a fascination...with a twist.

Rope tied nowhere fell, unravelled,
     unwound before its end,
ex-pound both there
     and back again.

Eyes stung in recoil
     slip mind's threadings
     round that old pencil tip,
through a tear, for a while,
for an hour, through a wrist.

Medusa, your compulsion
     gives the food to that repulsion,
but power poised in spiral,
     braille mandala, copper wire
and thought bubbles to Kwan Yin
     -- tiny beams welcome in --
and moments, coilus interruptus,
just the pauses at the edges:

  Breathing out. Out.
   Breathing in.

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