Sarvangasana--Shoulder stand on a chair
Inside its shell, all martial
turrets, spiral points, the whelk,
soft as a tongue, slips unhindered
through the polished rose-pink
lips, while I, a creature of another
sea, head downward on
this folding chair, extend
my toes like pink-tipped
tentacles. My head is free
for once to lose its lofty
place, and pillowed
on the floor, looks only
inwards at the chest, hands
lightly grasping the back bar.
2 comments:
Mysterious, especially the first three lines. I love how each poem takes its own shape and meaning.
Thanks Lou. I worry that they are too much the same.
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