It is here.

Already.  Perhaps always?

This creature with its complicated desire –

creates me, creates in me,

hints at something that can become.

This finding of it – it of me – tastes of cold binding to a flame.

New.

Something new that attaches to my senses.

Rustles in the reeds, smells mixing with the damp rotting woods.

 Small, brazen, lumbering through my space

without rhythm or rhyme in breath and step.

If this is the seeking, how uncouth!

Graceless meaning merciless.

New.