I
walk to you like fire. I cry names, and you prose
as
if nameless. You call me, Fantast, and swig a Coors. Such
beauty,
disguised in a void. We qualm or
sit
the rain—a porch by rocking chairs. I shelter a vase or
scar,
and you voice a childhood. Nothing could
separate
nightmares. We quiver or tremble—alive—
somewhere
by caves, if Love is feasting! I’m a wraith, my
Love—trespassing
raw future. We kindle as esoteric—
filled
with barriers, and printed souls. What is low it neither
lives
nor dies: it’s a bleeding voice—a hurried harp. But
awaken
a thrum, or feature a trombone, for the
heart
is violin, the soul is flute. Such fiction as grays
tiptoe
the symbol is music. There you are, a Sufi
soul,
or there you stand, a luminous fire; for love by spirit—
an
archway of winds, as we perish, moonstruck or desert.
