poem

Mystery

The dance of
uncertainty
snakes about us-
coiled fertility.

What is being born
is uncertain
as whelps of babies
are heard in dark
corridors of
the mind.

There is sex without the fluids
or the fluids run on higher
octane and run
faster and stronger
into the mysterious
which lives in the dark
of the future giving birth
to the present.

All doubt rises and burns
in the steam-
the moment isn’t clear
but it runs me fast.