one
nose is split in two, ear slowly snakes to nape, hair is a succession of thorny weeds.

the tongue is just content where it is - in its everlasting cave.

two
ah, such are the trickeries of truth. yes, truth is truth but where does it lie? who utters it? does it let flowers bloom or does it slay everything in sight?

to whom does the earnest fowl address the foreboding questions? the questions already come with their answers, yes, but whose reply will reverberate the most in the quiet hour?

three
letter to myself: ah, my sweet, do not go against the wisdom of the ages. they look at you, rolling their eyes, doing the perfunctory shrug, signalling winks among themselves, intimating let's not worry, it won't be long, wait and see.

four
slaying would be the expedient method, but unravelling exposes the anatomy of what has become. (notice that it is never past, always past progressive.) we are here only because we now have the eyes to unlock connections in-transit, pulsating however they are, seductive for their collective grip.

oh, the vagaries of the past progressive. we struggle to nourish the infant now, yet the hapless turtle manages to catch up later on in the race. we wonder, did the turtle ingest steroids? did the other sprinters lose steam? did they adjust the finish line? one should not invest too much time in dissecting such questions.

five
such is the difference between listening and heeding. listening is rendered sacred in a contract bound by the tactile look, heeding is slipping every found coin through a pocket that has an unbeknownst frayed hole. the finger probes around the loose threads, already knows the futility of the act but continues to let the coins rain, if only because there is a pocket in the first place.