Countless clawing pages staging
—silent, thick, and poured upon those spiraling chasms hidden
well behind mirrors. With
ameliorating honey and flowers coronating every step
back through the wilderness
—between the dead sea, the mountain towns, and the desert
he stops for a smoke under a tree.
He’ll go back, but not yet.
Touches here, there
—feeling the taste in her eyes. Of course its only here
among untopped nails backing clouds back
away from them. Of course its only there that the pages
innocently claw and overthrow stages.
(Drawing above, Nietzsche-Bambach, ink on paper)