Metamorphosis

As the fingers caress
new leaves sprout out of the eyes
weeping the sunlight,
garnishing – with the greenish glow.
The mouth – wet with the shadows – turn into a cave,
the Oak tree billowing out
its twigs painting itself over the forehead
of the rising sun.
The bough trembles
like lips – smiling – on the sad faces
twisted and locked, probing empty spaces
to burrow in,
to lit up and burn – the bodies – into ashes.
The heart an iceberg
floating to break
wreak havoc
its tip visible like a bloody nose
making love an exercise
in psychoanalysis believing
the sum total of the bodies – the anatomy – would bare the soul
make it.