the curve of parallel lines

A dense pack of meandering thoughts that I am still trying to sort out, years after the first time I read it.

the curve of parallel lines

complacency breeds the lowest of lives,
edges dulled until they reflect only the memory of sharpness,
the arch recollections of past positions and penetrations.
souls sold into an elegant enslavement as we circumvent
the radii of our oblong hearts.
start from the top and trace me a pattern, born cold,
worn old in the furrows of brows knit with thrice told yarns,
kisses that dangle at the angle between melody and harmony,
the tunes told in triumph and transcendence and tempests
that washed us to the quick them sent us on our way to play
a game of mumble the peg, a tune of soundless atonality.
kodo drums driving us out into the night. light passing
for heat, heat passing for fire, fire passing for passion.
and all through the night we keep watch on the clocksprings
as they wind. inexorably. down to the last frail turns.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.