he interprets me in multitude and renders me on torn paper;
scraps that sail up to whisper all around me.
i loiter like a beggar sitting on cracked cement,
shaking my maker's cup coveting that single silver piece
that will make my cup spill over,
solid.
he speaks to me in hidden verse,
a secret message virtually spent
in a match fitting for two players.
a game of backgammon
and a die already thrown
in bold prediction of our movements.
his discourse is sent to wrap around me like wool,
scratching the surface of my skin, a tingling titillation.
and he,
having been my maker for a moment, composed me.
defined me in such a way that i hover in the interim,
a makeshift gap, rejecting any forecast.
i sight the practiced operation as he delivers the alluring art of it,
spreading in an endemic bout of sensation.
both devious and genuine, he's perceived how to pitch the die.
and yet here i endure,
osmotic.
