Young Writers Society

Deep underground prospects at the river-crook of my arm,
where we buried charcoal with our melted-together clay-pot palms
in the hopes of diamond blood-bond love-root veins to come.

Your live hand on my elbow as we stepped nearby the fresh-meat stream,
surrounded by nakedly decorous walls of our own-made urn like a new cinema
waiting for the installation of a film, our planted not-yet sparkling dreams.

(There was an aspiring towards dichotomous patterning settling as if something
neither flesh nor earth, neither flesh-made nor earth-made, would keep
the reel reeling round, would keep the thinking-things reeling round our own-made urn.)

Our embracing blood-pumping bodies muscle vessel
that we used to move the soil on our banks, to water new-blossom foliage,
though the movie-moments and nearly-diamonds were found in and for

the internal waterways alone.