Consuelo Roland

Spelunking

Artfully,
residual odours of intrigue and betrayal,
essences of love,
entrap her,
go down, down, down,
distilled beyond echo.
She finds she can, after all,
puddles of nebulae at her feet,
breathe in quite well,
the vagrant thoughts of the deep well.
She must descend with crampons, grapnel and rope
in the direction of that place,
numinous pit of the pulsing word.
Though it is not quite where the heart is,
and it sits off-centre to the gut,
and there is a kind of dying with it,
although occasionally rock falls,
what she seeks is alike to a crevice
on the cusp of heaven,
for between them: she maker and she believer,
the shape changes,
escaping.

Escaping,
the shape changes.
For between them: she maker and she believer
on the cusp of heaven,
what she seeks is alike to a crevice;
although occasionally rock falls,
and there is a kind of dying with it
and it sits off-centre to the gut,
though it is not quite where the heart is,
numinous pit of the pulsing word.
In the direction of that place
she must descend with crampons, grapnel and rope.
The vagrant thoughts of the deep well
breathe in quite well –
puddles of nebulae at her feet.
She finds she can after all,
distilled beyond echo,
go down, down, down,
entrap her
essences of love,
residual odours of intrigue and betrayal,
artfully.

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