Reflections by Still Waters

During the entire period of this flight

No one can or will

Attempt to bar entry

To her bloated tongue

That hangs

There snakelike,

Like a rope bell

From the skies...

Keep your hands inside

The moving vehicle, and

Attempt to adhere

A second pair

Of safety googles

To your face for comfort...

The Weeping Caravan is now

So devastatingly vulnerable...

See the sober groups in funeral garb...

And wouldn't you cease to know it

To avoid her morass of

Braids, and epic tangles

That continue after death...

The strangle vine beneath the

Kind caress...

She's aiming to close the door

So violently rough on you

And all that you've achieved,

Because she's cast a glaring judgement

Before the next still,

And the words her friends

Have piled high...

The pale yellow chicken clucks...

Have lastly sunken teeth...

Hello, My Dear...

Those amino acids that

Seek to invade me

Tell me that I have nothing

I should fear for your feisty

Interlopers

Dressed in earnest shades of blue,

Though you were to seem so genuine

Before you sped the tractor over all that we

Held dear, throwing a deadly final switch...

During this flight

No one can or will

Attempt to bar entry

To her bloated tongue

That hangs

There snakelike,

Like a rope bell

From the skies..

How do they aim to know?

Eyes in armor that lie behind the castle moat...

...The same one's that I return a gaze to after

Lifetimes of remote viewing...

Barely breaking a sweat before the newest force

Ensues...

The spiders pass into this realm

Unscathed,

As I convince myself that aid

Will be forthcoming...

She takes me in cold arms,

We watch the moments tick off, under

An evolution of still photographs...

I laugh afterwards in grief...

Losing light like birds in flight

Below a sunset

That has caught us groping for

Lost straws

With pants and skirt akimbo...

On the edge of skinny diving

For a mythic mountain glide...

See you at the end of night!..

Wonder if you'll nurse your presence....

'til the ponds of frogs run dry..

I forgive you for us then,

Though I remain

As much to blame if not

More so

In my delineated

Rubble of past form...

6/15/24

Bunny Villaire

Edit #5

(The photograph)The Oracle, 1949.

By John Gutmann