“an iterating mirage,
the what for which we search.”
Ann Lauterbach
As rudiment to his desire,
the why not the what or how,
her laughter embeds
along his strangled veins
to justify the margins
he’s inscribed within.
Surreptitiously aghast
at one’s perception,
take note, like a child
fingering a taste of frosting,
how guilt and delight wrap,
like fog or his myopia,
around translucent elements
orbiting his befuddled heart.
(November 30, 2016)
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