Quarry

If you want to go from staring
at silence to some kind of choir
of rays chaotic and radiating
come alone and come unclothed.

To the quarry down below where
ancient water meets modern air I
take my long rests from the daily
conversations on food or weather.

Here the rain and wind are unfair
as red as mad as green as florentine
change as slow as couples strolling
slowly trying to fit each other.

This deep starts looking down in fear
strikes twice in the jump and in the fall
here the children measure bravery
by not being bothered by threat of death.

I dove from where I should be scared
from fifty five feet up the slate ladder
with no care for how my parts splatter
out of irresponsible faith.

Off the edge in feral and sincere
curiosity into the gaping bowl
through the rockless cavity toward
tint of slated blue below me.

Once the mouth can breathe no air
and bubbles hide you in their flurry
and all direction is reduced to turning
you think of your self and no other.

In the captivating atmosphere
where you are lighter than the dark
where revelation swims so shadowy
where gravity lies you will be bothered.

As if hidden in your own verdant fur
or camoflaged in peacock feathers
born on sullen moon seeing sprinkling
stars in your natural habitat coffee.

When after an unbearable spell
you reach your lost life’s bright surface
gasping oxygen swallowing vision
you are calm to the deepest depth.

On my back with water in the ears
feet for fins and arms for oars
I stroke straight-backed and fluctuating
between motion and floating.

In half and half of effigy and flare
where all forms of life can share
appreciation for where we are not
between above and mostly beneath.

So come to the quarry with no one there
and come where only the careless dare
to breakably sense similacrum of fancy
to one world into another.

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About mrsorenson

all over the place
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