CHRIS REPPUCCI

Mercury has stopped in motion, spinning in aqua pirouette, intuitively within the empathic abyss, and when he does, like a fin displacing water, the liquid in our brains gurgles and a wake swirls behind the messenger following him in his strokes back to Aquarius, trailing after with bubbles and bits of marine biology which team in the emotional ocean and lift and fall upon the swells of the high seas of romance. Every letter in his sack is thoroughly soaked, and all the ink

The hand which quivers above the quiver, not from fear, but from something in the air, more like a liquid medium the body walks through to proceed in steady motion on the trail of its moving target which is both everywhere and somewhere hidden away in a far off sector of the unsurveyed area. Our pursuits, both romantic and rashly real take us off map into uncharted territory where insights incinerate the paper wrapped powder charges we brought along at night when we wait in