Gravitation

We’re praising: an entire community; and music is yearning

with fevered groans. We rupture a soul inflated, musing

sky-circles. I love you a fire, streaming our storm—a fusion

of art beliefs. But there’s a woman sorely embellished,

groping wallpaper. We cross a hurdle to kiss a saint: she tears

a rasp, alive a nib, studded in whiteout. This art of birds,

drifting aloft, wafting through excursions, tiptoeing a freshet.

So ensoul death: string a harp: where a touchstone is

subjectivity; for we perish unborn, melding into mirrors. I

crushed a shadow, a silken glare, ever to siphon a blessing.

Indeed a prayer, a daughter’s wave—soaring dimensions,

where mother ponders in awe. Its logic, plus compassion,

altering a universe; where ethos creates a creed, ever to

shimmer glory. Such triumph, a garb of toil, even sickle to earth.

So dig a voice, even to plant a verb, where nouns cry for mercy.

Else a glimmer ever burns, as opposed to fruition. This is our

raindrop, a riddled keel, moving steepness, even voiceless.