I think I could live in the folded wrinkles around a rhinoceros eye,
near the thick curved horn where calm decisions are made
in a blink. Inside my skin would be the rhythmic pulse
of purpling skies before the almost-rain, a recollection
of replenishing deserts,
followed by an unexcitable ripple after.
A guttural reaction that might scrape the air,
might jangle dust, a part of phonetics
where I am trying to tell you what is important,
but you’re closed-eared.
I walk away with a cadence
of profound indifference.
No sense getting angry,
although I appear to contain a volume of fury.
I’d rather inhabit the noiselessness,
let be, let be,
place a dampener on my emotions,
let dust settle
on my massive shoulders.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 22, Issue 4.
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