Fluid Scheme

Today turns time into slow flood:
elongates it as if all momentariness
were false – softly prodded by
the pulse in brain of blood: a gentle
force – a beat – repeats – its waltz
entreats you to abandon hope,
and fear: something wants you
merely here. It is July, of course:

mid-summer in Manhattan brings
inevitable sin: sensual humidity
against which nothing possibly could
win – a spin in which the soul
seems to remember what it felt like
to begin – primeval ooze. You’re
tempted, heavily, to snooze –
to lose your consciousness: become

slug-essence: some quintessence
of the start of things: be a jiggling
blob: seductive mud: gently separate
into gelatinous striation: let your
blubbing thread become a flow –
be the rhythmic ripple of a ribbon
of a river in whose bed dreams
stream: be summer’s fluid scheme.

.