I'm working on a series of ekphrastic poems with the photographer Jelena Glazova. This is the second in the series. The photo is an image of a woman dancing -- blurred. It's interesting as I write these that they begin based in the image and then find their own path of associations, without much of an explicit meaning --
This is a melody, composed of flesh,
that shreds each moment of specificity.
But North of what nowhere is this night?
What cavern inside us did we mine of dream?
What guides the lips that dine upon our
minds? Eaten to ward off superstition,
our fingers visited the origin of myth—
transfixed. A limousine or shadow calls
to us to dance like gristle, incognito.
Your tongue pronounces whims
uncontrollable (as through our lives we fell).
Blurred bones twist like wan guitars
in the mists of transparent speech. Yes, you
are out of reach. I orchid against you, are
you listening, but tropic climes deride us.
Train your eyes to quit their leash.