There are no points to this
nor any short way there.
What you see are diamonds
in the rough, tenuous, we call them ‘A’.
Death imagined on the other side,
a membrane made of gauze
we float through, searching
for a better term, we call it ‘B’.
Distance is a line, not.
Curved space rotates,
ideas are challenged
and we find what’s real is knot.
Universe and universe,
they talk and talk and words
lose meaning, angry is the juice
that ties in intestinal knots.
Fingers feel the pinch, we spin
and spin a story into cloth, add
characters and clauses, beginning
is the end, the end is the beginning,
our minds unraveling the secret knot.
© Rose Aiello Morales 2012