The voice begins the chain or is it the smell…
the invisible pheromones that drift
on the unnoticed breeze, alight, enter, alter…
not then the voice, rather, the face –
light is faster than sound, those twin lips
serpent-stretched into that smile, the eyes,
twin orbs, not windows, but a tarot deck
of all the hanged and towered hopes; finally,
at the end of the line, hands on waist, head
tossed back as legs kick to the conga tune,
heart sets the rhythm as heart always does…
secret drummer of the world, twirling sticks
and stones to the voice that fitted, elegantly –
a puzzling piece clicks the picture into completion.
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