Movement: A Sestina

On the tip of the wind,

Deep is labored breath.

Lost boy runs for the train.

The cycles of his life are fluid,

Well read, and rock-steady.

From place to place he’s drifting.

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In thoughtless manifestation, he’s drifting

Like three sheets to the wind.

Bearings oiled and fluid,

An existential ship is docked to rock-steady.

How does it breathe,

The comets blazing train?

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Like flint to the gunpowder train,

The fire in her heart is drifting.

His hands are on her hips as they rock-steady.

A whisper in her ear, “just breathe.”

There is warmth to the wind

And the love is fluid.

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The dance takes shape, a fluid.

Lifted skirts, and twirling silk trains.

Step back and let it breathe

Before you ride the wind.

“You see your soul drifting?”

The guides whisper, “is it rock-steady?”

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They joined forces to rock-steady.

Tongue laps on the sacramental fluid,

And her howls become the wind.

Their subtle bodies rise—drifting,

Lost and running for the train.

While kissing pores forget to breathe.

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Wine is corked, let it breathe!

Pour two glasses and rock-steady.

Eyelids falling, pupils drifting,

People watching from the back of the train.

The businessman yells, “My assets are fluid!”

And he knocks his glass into the wind.

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The changing winds of moments are drifting.

Time struggles to breathe, quantum minds rock-steady.

A lost train of thought lets your faith be fluid.