Pressure

by Christos Polydorou

Leisure
at other temperatures. My
Other
takes over

like a lover
and I fall through
my body
like it were a burning hoop

and I the trapeze artist.
Treasure
accessible by other gestures.
Honey, gold dust, pushed out of

the throat of God
the Bee, the Being
eaten by a Bee eater
and regurgitated across

the heavens, their vaults
open, wide. You and I
we could be dancers
forever. I could

sense you needed this,
so I did whatever I could
to provide for you.
To be your comfort

and joy.
There are doors.
Often they are closed.
The doors are so tall.

They seem impossible to open,
and then they open.
You walk through,
all that’s left

to do.

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