Zen and the Art of Fluid Dynamics

 

I.

 

City haze twists—twirls

in my fingers like a dirty scarf

 

where fine dust settles between

threads of my fingerprints,

while new skin swallows it whole,

 

furious to remake me

until I, too, cling tooth and nail

to shiny chrome and polished granite.

 

II.

 

my bare feet tread ferns

from coffee ground earth

where

            I spun fractals—

like silkworm cocoons

to hold

            my trembling mind

ghost-like, sinking shorelines,

soaked with roses

 

III.

 

Mother Eris bore

                          details

self-same asymmetry

 

unraveled tree

sway to gas phase

violence,          bent, beautiful

stormy gait;

                 my leaves dance away

off my nimble fingers

like rising

                  incense    wishes

wilt in swirls of      leaves

until my river     catches stones,

to rise the city again.

 

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