This Mohorovicic Continuity

© 1999 David Hunter Sutherland
All rights reserved.

So much taste, touch,
Sound to consume in our
Comings—goings, a sense
Of new grass, rustling
Colors, bitter edges, the deluge
Of everything hard, soft,
Brittle and cracking
Skips across periphery
Like a ripple of teeth, tongue,
Eyes fixed at some distant
Point, trained to ignore
The bend or fork, taught
Into awareness of dot then
Line, all distance a time
Before we return.
So is our mortality like a woman's
Embrace in death? Cuddling us in a sense—
Surround of crayons hues, soft sights, sounds?
Or perhaps she is the bitch, a ceaseless
Vertigo of kinetic rings snapped under collar
As the mind's width is played out like Beksinski's
Trumpeter on bone knuckles, all visuals fall loose
Like rain into a well of lips caught on a filament
Of metal mistaken for nipple.

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