Just the echo. Rope
and the post, the jaw, the glass
persona to which it is tied.
Touches a single eyelash, drips
against cerulean, featureless walls.
You wait, stomach in knots
so flesh can be freed, feel
of cord on skin, a single drop
of oil to excite the camera.
You watch one part of you walk
away, can never tell which it is.
But you know what is left
still burns, craves the friction
of cable, skin, tension, release.
Flesh is burden. Body
betrays itself. The sun calls,
just out of reach, hand proffered.
The orchestra begins.
1. ed. note: the title is pronounced "kôki", and translates to "rope", with underlying meanings of "discipline" and "order".
