Benthar Dunthat

Imagine the minute hand

of timelessness,

the blink

that never lifts in return,

the exhale

that gives passion

to a vacuum

as a tidal wave,

the sentence

that never finds

its drug of verb,

this set of wings

that only has

statue muscle memory

to respond,

these webbed feet

to walk

the scorching deserted floor,

dysfunctions,

in all regards,

as contradictory pleasures offered,

expectation as a myriad

of circuitous playful knots,

a rosary said,

of living that same bead

over and over

but never once forgot,

all these wide-ranging affects

as postcard quips

I send your way.

Looking forward,

to no reply,

signed . . .

Benthar Dunthat