Rorschach

And this, the plain shape
of a chalice becomes
the two of us, closing together
to form ourselves into
one body. To be Kafka
and evolve. To be as the
cloud of starlings that manifests
from the flames of a bonfire.
As if the smoke were pregnant
with them. As if we, in our lusts,
could be more than this indecency,
more than this movement. As if we
were the moth whose wings beat
once into continents, shifting –
become unstable; elements in
the maelstrom of it. As if we knew
ourselves interchangeable.

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