My dancing dirge, light
embodied in aqueous,
invisible tentacles, limpid
Saimin gestures, continuous
Oh, not actual continuity
as in some multiple,
like sixty breaths an hour.
But inside, lung stuck in virulent window,
the breathing house.
The woe-heavy ankle rings,
waiting for a sentence,
time dangling, disabling
its own parts, my twisted path.
Voices and masks.
All transactions remembered, sorted,
backstories living in Icelandic rapture,
greenhouses, potted plants, light-seeking tendrils,
the universal strings. They sing. They sing.
About the Author
Jim Kraus earned a PhD in American Studies with specialization in environmental literature from the University of Hawai‛i. Currently, Jim is a Professor of English at Chaminade University of Honolulu, where he also edits Chaminade Literary Review. Jim enjoys swimming and surfing.