(I think this poem goes with what may be a "Vishnu" series, the first of which is Vishnu on Chinese New Year.)
The red flower spirals
or it's a fractal
folding.
His heart is a window
box with a red flower
Beating. Petals spiral in, or out,
Magritte-like.
A map in water, a warehouse, snowblue.
Lost pink dancing slippers,
a church in black and white,
a chorus singing carols.
Quarantine. Insolence. Defiance.
Burlap and cold steel.
Madness in prison.
I heard the message,
its jumbled sanity.
Fragments of patterns,
like this poem,
torn from the epic.
Worlds within worlds.
Bullets and blood, the heart floods.
Five billion dying in biological warfare.
What was that movie where he dreamed his death,
unable to save the world.
Saviour, the preserver.
We'll all be saved on a microchip,
says the prophetess.
Sheath of feeling. Words groping to touch air.
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I can't explain it but I got the conection
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