to the Apparition of Emily Dickinson
by Conrad Martin

Going coldly mute
I must absolutely
your cold mind
a mutual violence
minutely know
how thin I am with your lean self-seething—
how keenly my teeth ache
with the pressure inside your temples.
I am a gasp in the back of my skull
tracing the fall of your words,
drawing curves on the line of your thought,
plotting beautifully precise annihilations and you—
Gentle Blade—
sweetly bleeding
cold fire brine down a crack of brain
through the spine of my spine.

Conrad Martin loves words for their ability to create deeper awareness and experience of life through connection between minds and hearts.

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