like water under ground,
going places.
waiting for her to listen,
to see,
to be able
to claim her place;
evolve,
make a left turn, resolve
to become the navigator of her own chemistry:
a treasure hunter –
pirate of her own ocean -
drifting on the periphery of her
softly folded in
dreams.
for what of this plunder? pillage? loot?
What lust
is thus
aroused?
for it is not the treasure
that seduces us
like sirens,
surges in us
like sudden,
unfathomable desire.
It is not the plunder,
but the hunt.
Always the hunt
