Oh
for an unknown self, wherefore, a self known, ever for
giving
life. I love her like issues, ensuing from love, where
potent
conversation strings a guitar. Oh for pearls and
inrush—a
woman’s aesthetics—to flicker at a low flame.
Such
is secret, earthenware filled with furnace, an
etiquette
of
souls.
We
knit for peace, to scream—“I heart you ever-more.” It’s
a
gentle ache, becoming attractive, a musical event. We
shed
a costume, an opulent vest, to become a wee bit
fragile.
“I see you”—trickles into a fortress—a sea of
anchors.
Have
we heard—a beating soul—to whisper—
“It’s
happening?” I welcome such sight, nestled in a blanket,
hoping
for a settee; or rather, in a lounge chair, flicking
channels.
I thought of a shoji screen where all is veiled,
peering
at the contour of beauty, and partly sightless. Shall I
trust
for rivres, sipping from a tea cup, semi-infused?
I
drift into a place
sprinkled
with mirrors, where many speak of love. I listen to
an
elder stating existential woes, quasi-intoxicated, pointing at
a
snail’s pace. We live as phantoms, to carry a stool, pausing
for
russet moons.
