Thumb, index, middle cusp

divine white platform held

This time I chose an

un-round one

four rotund already at home

like a pyramid of Giza beheaded

and thrashed in a Bosh washer

its veins spring aqua

of flavours ginseng and 

ceremonial matcha

pumped quartz

it looks of fat, sinew, flesh

Salam de Sasesc

bruised on corners

have you brushed with

the grains beneath feet?

did they cry squeals

and skim waves

dull and lame

light held

edges and oblongs

Yet I cannot say so long

which memory can I hold

of you