(The depth is a trojan)
Throat, the epicotyl
As we sprout, the moistness of clay wraps all things shaped as fingers
Suction. An act of drawing in. The treachery of origin — mouth of a moment.
Parikrama. Thought caught in the bones. Cobbles sinking in amniotic fluid. Is and isn’t a cycle. Is and isn’t the poetic loop. Is and isn’t fluent. Is and isn’t cushioned with sandpaper.
It calls like a sting. I follow like a haunting.