By Gray Davidson
There is a single line that moves through all things.
This Line is a curve.
This line starts with the edge of a pool of blood which could never flow in sharp edges.
From blood, it seeps back into a wound, round, rounded, part of the curve,
And back to the round bullet that made that round wound.
Then to the length of a circular barrel and to the gilded golden trigger,
Which arcs so enticingly around a finger.
It seems to have been born for this,
Engraved with the lilting melody of fingerprints…
To lock tightly.
Lock tightly in the waving hair.
The wind shall not have its way.
The waving hair, endless and mathematical as a beach.
Always the same, always changed when a wave returns to the ocean.
Black sand at noon,
And every grain, a perfect sphere.
Sand drops away, curled up water, in the lowest place it can find.
It can never flow in jagged edges. No foam.
This endless sine is cut by prow, bearing circled eyes.
The eyes that watch for rocks, that they may never interrupt the line.
The figure at its head all curves as well,
From calves to belly to breast to forehead.
She could dive forward…
And then would circles' perfect arcs ripple outward timelessly.