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Metaleptic


Emotions float. The fish’s motion is
its thought. Unknown forms embedded in stone
invite our guesses at things, at origins.
Some ancients believed the soul adheres to bones.

Each surface is a depth. Like corpusants,
a glow that’s cold, its source invisible.
Whispers at a wall audible yards distant.
Sea-bob of cormorants: a circling whale.

What we take on faith—that waves approaching shore
advance—is pattern, not displacement. Like wind.
The rose a magnet makes of iron filings.

Earth warms; fireflies no longer light a river’s
turns. What shakes the heart at the scent of skin?
Love stings. Love swings. Love rings. Love strings. Love wings.