sketched
in cold crayon-
hard and sharply
poised;
balanced on pages
edgewise,
each frame of us
thaws
by the fire of otherness.
each touch melts hands,
reaching
blurs fingers round.
we release.
colours
fall apart
[ shapes merge between offerings ]
and an image shared
congeals.


That line "each frame ... fire of otherness" made me sit up and holler in my recognition "YES ... HELL YES!!! And from there the hardness of crayons melted into the black waxy mixture of everything!!!

12 old applause
