upon the vine. I find you
when it is I that I find--
heart of eutexia, of your eyes
that move me like
heliotaxis--accentuated lush--
curve of Irish lilt--any "tongue,"
any sound heard like a composer
wrapping his body around
the music like a ballet dancer--
bursts from brass wind
instruments or a "brass" wind.
Flaming love, not a stuffy critic,
has no "elect"--but with
its variety of masks & creases
of misrepresentation, emerges
truth, unconcealed, in fullness.
II
Phenomenons not. Knots
of touching, greeting, protecting;
love doesn't "see" in lobes
like not allowing the right lobe
of the brain to know what
the left lobe thinketh--no,
ultimate love derives from
"The Prime Mover of Motions"--
no suspense of maintaining pressure.
III
A love, vast & gushing
through the channels of the heart,
revived the moribund banks of
one's delta, hovers in the moist air
of the soul, through the eyes it flows,
the tongue it speaks, never chased away
by an echo that emotes of which
Death may eye to obscure.
IV
Love's vision, sharper than the
eyes of Leonardo--gentle as the
vivid hues of a peacock's fan--
ignores the force of gravity, unseen
but seen, instead drapes us, in rapture,
in admiration, like currents of vapor
or moving arabesques of cloud, borne up,
flexed, and played with our Wanting,
our Yearning, our pre-programmed wiring,
by brisk winds of Man's ancestral genesis.
No comments:
Post a Comment