It is a highway.
A rope of splattered ink
On a watercolor smear,
Wet and dark and fast,
Yet static, paradoxally still.
As the moon, silent, gazing
Through a fall of ivy creepers.

It is enormous.
A mountain balancing on a pebble,
Breaths away from a cliff,
Pressing and heavy and sharp, yet
Delicately balanced, sweet,
Like the pull from navel to throat,
Before the tears.

March 19, 2005.