I’m
slanted and mire and brisk and curt and centered at this awesome juncture; at
which are eyes, this beige encounter—this voltage that entails! I fathom
proximity, but never the whereabouts—this thunder clapping in volumes. I saw a face, as to hear a voice, speaking
the inexorable.
We sighted gestures, but a moment in
whispers, gauging such trespass; herewith are fevers—soaring through
dungeons—as ever this key.
We
brought fire this Indian flame as scheduled to evolve—the torture of such
patience; to have but symbols, alive as heartbeats, ever this inner echo. Sparks become magnets, which to, become
anthems, hereto, are wellborn waves—that chisel phantoms—this plural reality.
We dine upon lightning, where lux is
freedom, as engaged in yogic shadows; this fraction of words, this action of
souls, these mirrors of an axis. We sit about silence, where essence rises,
favored by concentration; to lengthen souls, this arctic communication, to give
at least one last death.
We wing and song and song and wing while
sitting in utter volume; wherewith is language, the intensities of a hunch, and
at once, to cull an inner thump.
You becomes plural, as to partake of fire,
this fury sculpting calmness; and you becomes one, a nation of souls, courting
comforts; to have experience, as outsoaring faith, where the two find a
home…[but] what for this power, a Dead Sea Soul, a city of Sibyllines? I
ask—founded in mystery, as to ponder your chi, alive in frankincense.
