1 April 2002
 

The Turning and Returning Song
 

Let me resing the sacred cantos
you and the gods alone contrive
to bring into being.  Understand me,
dreamer of all sweet things—alive
and tangible, I am swiftly rising
out of a pool of melted glass
because you are fair and stillness finds you
waiting where moons and summers pass
but moments extend.  Our moment reaches
out of a timeless world to this
deep zone of night-breathing stars where each to
each bears a light of learned bliss
by staring—then leaning far, far forward.
Here—in the touch of supple hands—
all the dear worlds, and coming morning
magic that sings and understands.
 

***
 

2 April 2002
 

How You Make Your Way
 

Down you wander—down the seasons,
down the grey and fading years,
down the mists of cold unreason,
bounded by a veil of tears,
a clouded crystal—nay, a mirror-
sea in which a vision shines
toward you, full Moon rising.  We are
dreams whose common heart divines
the presence of a sacred river
under all the beating noise
of fast-descending footsteps driven
vainly—till true faith destroys
false reason, and our strength of purpose
mounts, and—here at last we meet
ourselves, deep-shadowed mirror-lurkers,
dancers whose unhurried feet
move riverlike through joyful measures.
Hear the words they echo.  Source
of all they celebrate, together
we comprise a watercourse
that winds downhill toward an ocean-
song in which a strong heart beats
because the dreams inside it know their
measure.  It repeats, repeats,
repeats itself through endless cycles.
Down you go again, but ‘Yes’
is on your lips.  You sing it lightly,
borne by love’s long power to bless.
 

***
 

3 April 2002
 

Falling Down and Down
 

Down-spinning leaves where the least of my reason
for being uncannily merry subsides
and the best of it rises—I see you believing
your senses where tangible harmony glides
into crystal-clear view, an immaculate answer
to that which has vexed you so long, and a dare
that leans over your shoulder and gives you the glance that
will see you lie sleepless tonight with a prayer
full of wonder just touching the tip of your tongue from
an angle you’d nearly forgotten to miss.
Now we are homing in, we who are sprung from
the same canted branch where a burden of bliss
has hung heavy and long.  Now a means, not a limit—
a shower of leaves, each one lightly engraved
in its sweet living flesh with a powerful hymn to
our meeting this way—and each says, You are saved.
 

***
 

4 April 2002
 

A Circlet for the God of Song
 

I am only almost weary.
You are really very near.
We have seen so much, so clearly—
conscience overtakes us here—
conscience, or its faery double.
Elemental wisdom rides
my aching spine, where so much trouble
makes its way to where the tides
of midnight meet a river’s open
channel.  Diving, I breathe in
and find a mixed yet keenly potent
magic shining through my skin.
By this incandescent outline
you appear, likewise aglow.
I divine a dear, dear power’s
nearness.  God, I love you so.
 

***
 

5 April 2002
 

To Wear Daylight Like a Gown of Leaves
 

Where we were weary and no leaves were turning
deep real-summer green—where all passionate play
was a ghost-riddled game and old hope lay mid-yearning-
rebellion against its own dream, a thin grey
veil of somnolent day-walking sadness gave shift to
a green-dappled gown in a heartbeat.  A real
and immense lonely longing turned over, and drifts of
impossible sweetness possessed us to feel
every cell of the otherworld forest around us
run seamlessly one with the shadowy lay
of the hold of lorn wakefulness everywhere.  Found in
a heartbeat—and what does its meant measure say?
A quickened deep-down sense of lyrical madness
meets endless enchantment—forever and aye—
in all places and all-ways.  We knew, but we had to
remember to wear it wound round us and fly
like the very first word on the breath of the singer
of all ancient summer.  That love-word—oh, may
it come over me, dream, and enhance me to ring like
the tune at the core of your heart, shining fey
music teacher.  A drift of leaves green as the eye of
the sweet secret magic that stares its appeal
to the body I bear under all this desirous
live foliage—daylight and aye, we ARE real!
 

***
 

6 April 2002
 

A Shift in the Weather
 

Weather be your shifting garment,
clouds and stormy seas your eyes
that gaze throughout a gentle darkness,
flames amid the perfumed skies
wound all about you, glowing secret
lambency like treasure-fields
beneath a fold of slowly leaking
springtime snow as midnight yields
a drop of its compressed elixir
into trembling, waiting hands.
Far away, a beating quickness
senses you and understands
the brave mistake you’ve always made at
lunacy’s  command.  A sky
that flashes—this your gown of swaying
layers sweeps a clouded eye
with sudden fraught perception:  She hangs
over my horizon, yet
I cannot seem to see her.  Dream and
want her, aye—but such a threat
of changeable desires and seasons….
Now the first great drop of rain.
Slowly, slowly, ancient being-
sadness-sky, unveil again
the emptiness that lies beneath your
airy-ocean folds of night.
Pale away and die in deeply
fearless gleams of opal light
beneath my gaze, beneath my reaching
hands, beneath my wisdom’s sigh
of somber song.  Let music teach you
how to breathe the perfumed sky
YOU ARE, and empty into nothing
all that you need not have been.
Sudden drifts of simple love—aye,
thus the shift of you is seen.
 

***
 

7 April 2002
 

By the Flow of Living Song
 

Soft as a slowly molten river
flowing downhill, but twice as fast
as an eye-blink—suffer the lash that lives in
front of the lens that spies this vast
denuded landscape of flaming silver
set free to race the lunar mile
between wakeful ideas so bewildered,
we who obey them only smile
in idiot desolation, seeking
stringently inward till a scroll
of hand-painted silver letters meets our
gaze there and we together roll
down passionate mountainsides where vivid
forests and fields of blossom sway,
inspired and enhanced by what’s been given
leave to possess us here this day
and taken in turn to know each other’s
own molten secrets:  aye, to view
a beautiful world’s best hope of love come
open—undone—and home—and true.
 

***
 

8 April 2002
 

Mouths
 

Dream me accord with all secret endeavors
motionless pistils and stamens on show
home to the weak-kneed but happy forever
we are in league with the need we all know
keeps us awake with its twist-tested grimace
cheerfully claiming the here we must be
woken moreover with slow-footed glimmers
Moon on the wane with its voice in a tree
flowers breathe out of a noiseless suggestion
words soon will fashion their own form of cry
deep in the pit of each blossom a lesson
reaches to meet and rejoin the star-sky
breathing its way through the mind of the secret
clutch each pale flower exists but to feel
Moon I am laid at the gate of this teaching
you only issue the timeless appeal
song learners listen and answer together
looming pursuit becomes woven delight
star-flower-seeds will remember the measures
we will have mouthed in the depths of this night
 

***
 

9 April 2002
 

Stop Yes No and Need Her
 

Stop and be overcome by willing
softness as dreams are never done.
Race to the mind that eyes you, chilled by
reasonable needs and counter-spun
sensitive film-illusions:  eyeblink
sadness, a tear’s almighty sway.
Meet me behind the veil that winds me
all the way round.  Have I this day
spoken of mesh and nettles, leaves and
poisonous stems?  I have—were you
willing to hear me?  Were you sleeping
nearer my god to deeper blue
oceans of tiny flower petals,
wearing a crown of viper fangs?
Were you misplaced among the nettles,
drowning inside a sea that hangs
behind my sealed eyelids?  Hover forward,
being of simple beauty’s blaze.
I am about to need your mortal
heat to prolong the glory-haze
not the least like a dream—a painful
swelling no poisoned thorn brings on.
Steep it in me and meet the angel
spelling this lay before it’s gone.
 

***
 

10 April 2002
 

Working
 

We will have squandered no little abandon
if all we achieve by the light of the next
swollen Moon is a glance at the scope of enchantment,
but not the deep breathing that renders the text
that lies hidden beneath its ulterior surface
of softly-mouthed lines in the magical round.
We will have woken to no greatly learned
desire out of season—and then, where the sound
of song rises most merrily powerful, we will
have threatened to fail.  Or—am I overfull,
sadly deceived by my own cast of being,
a dreamer devoted to feeling the lull
that oppresses my senses run out of devices,
permitting such passionate need to hold sway…?
Lean to me, lean to abandon:  The price is
so small, and it knows how to venture to say
where it comes from, and where it is coming together
at present with so sweet a mouth for the gift
of enchantment—a shift in the deep inward weather—
and whose little hairs are beginning to lift?
 

***
 

11 April 2002
 

This Cannot End
 

Whether you will or no,
I will be sorely pressed.
Life is a dream on show.
I am obscenely dressed,
shaken by storms of tears,
worried, and fiercely lorn.
What I have been for years
now seems a badly torn
silhouette mare and ghost-
rider whose eyes of glare
seize me till I almost
give up my last good air,
bid my real ghost go fly
nearer a flaming Moon,
and—then in my sleep I sigh.
This cannot end too soon.
 

***
 

12 April 2002
 

Dream Harder More Awake
 

I shall only call you closer—
closer to the burning wheel
I become when I am over-
whelmed by what I can’t help feel
is elemental wisdom’s deepest
spring-source.  While the Moon is high
yet rooted in the midnight sea of
strangenesses where I shall die
and be reborn a lambent sphere of
power soaring overhead,
you will meet your magic’s dearest
counterpart and not be dead
yourself to what she offers.  Only
answer when you hear her call.
Meanwhile, you will be a moaning
ghost who sweeps a moonlit hall
from window-square to window-square, each
splash of lunar lantern-sea
a bath of sweetly burning faery
music.  There dream deeply me.
 

***
 

13 April 2002
 

Spirit Us Unaway
 

All down the years you were shining, shining,
wearing an aura of mother-of-pearl,
calling the name of the one you were finding
so easy to venture to compass and curl
your mysterious wavering oceans of water-
clear sky round in splendid Moon-swells of desire
the while you brought dreams to exceed their allotted
derangement and frequency.  Bliss you inspire
seeks my pillow and claims it, but I am a window
that stares at the ocean outside its blank pane
and beams there its bright signal-gesture.  By dint of
pure dream-recognition we might meet again,
but this overflow sways to a strange combination
of risings, and there I am taken to view
my own face at the window—your eyes in wild space—as
it wavers above me, the blue Moon of you
that shows neither waxing nor waning but only
terrestrial waves of the mirroring light
that consoles you for dreaming above me while knowing
I’ll spirit us both to the overflow-height
of the sheer starry reaches our songs all endeavor
to meet and exceed as our thoughts intertwine.
I shall be caught in your need now forever.
You will reign solely forever in mine.
 

***
 

14 April 2002
 

Gabriel-Glow
 

I came alive to the feeling of sunlight
running in rivers and streams down my spine,
no one beside me.  I lay in a dungeon
of silence, alive but unable to twine
my cold limbs with the likes of another.  It burdened
my mind, but I struggled to meet and fulfill
the unspoken requirement that glided and murmured
sweet wordless demands.  I lay perfectly still—
then no one was there, neither by nor within me,
nor—no one was there:  I was where I am now,
sighing toward the love-words that will win me
the rivers and streams of the strength to endow
common language with spoken and heard song-dimensions
that hover at ease into what we all know
as intransigent daylight—and that in turns lends its
sublimely corporeal Gabriel-glow
to the hollows that ran sadly empty and silent
the moment before.  Was I where I was then
ever, really?  I wonder, but such a beguiling
solidity beckons, it passes all ken.
 

woe-ken
 

***
 

15 April 2002
 

Paronomasia alert: 'Divine' is also a verb.
 

Ringing Cries Divine
 

I kept hearing distant chiming.
Lonely though I was, it rang
a colder note that caught me rhyming
fiercely to myself.  I sang,
The least beginning breeds the wildest
ending.  Music moves in waves;
ice in feather-dances; silent
stars in patterns through the graves
where bodies lie impaled upon each
other from the inside-out,
rise again, and claim the dawn’s least
glimmer as their need to shout
increases till they burst asunder,
blaze like angry stars, then fall
to timeless singing.  I am one whose
resting place this was, till all
those high vibrating constellations
swarmed like hornets through my breast.
Now my song shines unabated,
knowing it has met the test
of sacrifice and woken willing
wisdom to its fervent kiss.
Someone deep inside me fills with
magic, then accedes to this
pronouncement:  We are dedicated
souls aflame—what would you be,
caught alone but not unmated?
Shudders from the roaring sea
of starry sky above pour into
wildly chiming notes that play
illuminated music-windows
through our graveyard-hearts all day.
All they sing—and they are shining
entities whose lives entwine—
tells us we are never final,
being ringing cries divine.
 

***
 

16 April 2002
 

Split Infinity
 

All of the lonely shining feathers
learning to—very slowly—fall
into my hands, so many weather-
blasted remains that seemed a tall
white column of gleaming ice enchanted
out of the Sun’ s least ray’s harsh reach—
how they achieve the hallowed answer’s
hidden-within-them gift of speech
with me as they do not melt but mount up
suddenly, warm and beating:  Whose
silver-white dove of fragrant fountain-
music wells over both ice-blues,
cold heaven and eyes perceiving such a
burden of power, each recoils—
then creeps gently back like snow to touch its
murmuring throat and think, What toils
might here be avoided?  Just one twist of
pain-fearing fingers….  Nay; too late.
It sings of strange passion—we both listen.
Both realize the long-sought fate
it brings to fruition.  Our once-lonely
words find their nested mates and fly—
without leaving home, this very slowly
summer-resuming snowless sky.
 

***
 

17 April 2002
 

The Key of the Heaven Locked Within
 

Render me willingly wild, pure elixir
of pale faery music at play in my veins
like eloquent starfire that rushes, not trickles,
to find the idea that bids it obey
your true word, my own conscience, without hesitation.
Once you have warmed me by singing my name,
keep on the tip of your tongue’s celebration
of lore-regained magic the deeply held claim
to command of an empire of eyes—splendid heaven’s
most resonant stars and the chimes of their lights
as their shining inspires you to sing a forever
of hitherto most absent-minded insight
become bolts of all-penetrant NOW in the body
of music you are—and in me, by the touch
of its strangely melodious power.  You’ve taught me
to want you; now play me the one note too much.
 

***
 

18 April 2002
 

By the Power of a Single Prism-Drop
 

Lend me a spark of pure inward persistence—
I will be rendered acutely aware,
silently taught how to wonder and listen,
fraught with the arc of the blaze of your stare
as it showers down light like a dream-gotten fountain
of fire blent with opaline droplets of pale
evening rain from a place so unspeakably—now can
I say it?—so caught on the same rusty nail
that curved over my thought-tainted brow when I bent it
in service to one stubborn ghost whose appeal
to my unwoken nature came murmured through mental
devices whose power I almost yet feel—
as the patter of rain becomes measures of magic.
The Sun, like the ghost of itself, sends a glare
as relentless as love when it blazes a vatic
clairaudient rainbow through me in mid-air
in the space before dusk as the dark blue horizon
one half of a circle away starts to glow:
A Moon marred with rust—but it pales as it heightens:
I’ve seen us turn into a universe-bow.
 

***
 

19 April 2002
 

Mutual Assurance
 

You say you would arrest the beat of
your own heart should I succeed
in winding down the wounded meat of
mine.  My huge immortal need
of sustenance some other plane of
magical endeavor must
provide, or I become an ancient
syllable reduced to dust,
unable to attain the flow of
eloquence I so require
to stand the lonely pain of knowing
all my future life’s desire
is written in a script of silver
wrested from a deeper heart.
If that should cease, I’d choose to kill me.
Aye, we love our darkness-art.
 

***
 

20 April 2002
 

Tell Us You Are Here
 

Layer by layer, leaves are turning—
greenly—beneath the summer hill,
moving between the steeps of burning
music my sacred dreams distill
from former years’ pale night-essence flowers
gathered by massive armfuls.  Sway
into its finely sweet-dark power.
Hear a clear voice within it say—
nothing that you have not remembered
up to the waking threshold-state
many times over.  Now you’ll render
vividly present to relate
out loud to your human self the central
message you’ve sought and always found
without leaving home:  The leaves’ relentless
music keeps swirling all around
the halls of this spiral-carven chamber
under the hill of all you see.
Summery leaves here bid you name your
self to the songs that call on me.
 

***
 

21 April 2002
 

Conflagration of Dreams
 

I shall be all the more ecstatic
each time we meet, for I am one
whose principal charge of fate is vatic
eloquence never touched by Sun—
but seeking toward its tender outmost
projection now, with a timid hand
and a wild cast of mind.  I need not mouth the
hesitant thoughts that stain the land
that lies here before me, blurred by teary
memories caught upon the page
of all I desire like sad and clearly
deficient strains of a gilded age
gone by—while the future hangs suspended,
only a glance the Sun and Moon
seek to share within one open-ended
twilight false dreams will banish soon
from the range of hues I now recognize.  My
love, you will bring a deeper view
of all the bright lands your least rays heighten
unto the human ghost of you
who wavers the path of wails she casts straight
forward toward your noble glare.
Somehow she’s seen—I’ve come ecstatic
into your always-waiting lair
of magical light, false day forgotten.
Shine to me, distant still but soon
to make of yourself the sole long-sought and
ideally present undertune.
You hang by a word—and then another—
roaring between my ghostly ears
like heard signal-fires all heaven’s love has
brought here to burn what disappears.
 

***
 

22 April 2002
 

While the Flesh Is Somewhere Waiting
 

Where my weary ghostly measures
wend their lonely way around
a lasting spool of thread they’ll never
quite unwind—for honor-bound
to sing each word their steps encounter
while they reel it out, they feel
delirious with ‘must’ and ‘ought to’—
ghosts remaining most unreal
within their own mind-chasms till they
hasten to the higher word
they trust still beckons—they’ll fulfill its
need to hear its hope-deferred
congratulations echo through the
glowing orbs they are:  Within
those auras, view revolving spools of
endless song but no, no skin.
 

***
 

23 April 2002
 

Nearly Satisfied
 

Where you wander by your merely
mortal self, the ghost of me
can summon—be—an angel nearly
satisfied to let you see
its long white shadow.  Sole enchantress
vivid as my shining side,
I can only claim your sadness,
take it as my holy bride,
lay it at sweet length beside my
cast-toward-you angel glow,
and say the mystic prayer that lights my
shadow till the pain you know
as human is enkindled hotly
and revealed as song at heat
that merely needed to be brought to
view its hated mortal meat
as longing wrapped in flaming sheets of
flowing passion.  Aye, you sigh.
Being poured toward the heat of
union—that should satisfy—
but will it?  When your dreams turn over,
face the pale of dawn, and fade
away, we will have rediscovered
darkness in the shining glade
of morning, night within the vale of
premonition, and the spark
of future moonlight in the wailing
ghost who rides the midnight arc
of New Moon inverse celebration—
floods of liquid flame, a sea
where magic’s deepest tunes are mated.
Now—lie still and marry me.
 

***
 

24 April 2002
 

I Say You Back
 

How many dreams have twitched their fingers,
willfully calling life away
from each of its day-designs to clinging
mystery-needs that write….  You say
farewell to the starry gleams of demon-
laughter behind the snow-white guise
of angel-desire-drenched sheets where dreamers
wrested apart their frozen thighs
replete with live blood congealed, its quickness
wound so immensely down, its slow
primordial beat so raw with sickness,
so weary-weak—and so—and so—
because we were found together, daylight
measures strong streams in heartbeat-time.
I was a broken beast whose fate was
told to the slowly speeding chime
of drip-drops of scented water falling
out of a sky that bent its head
above me—as I grew still and small and—
burst from our chamber newly-wed
and lyrically swift and merry.  You are
right—it would all turn out this way
and has and one day—the secret Moon our
ally—will yet again, I say.
 

***
 

25 April 2002
 

From this morning's dream journal entries:

7:44
‘Let two reasons where light understands be between this looking-glass’—‘The Glass Goddess’—the title and inscription on an antique poster on the wall in the entryway of a house in the country.  With several other people, I am on a bus which turns into a little handcart, on a long ride through the countryside.  We come to a place where people have thrown brush from their property onto the path and we have to stop and remove it.  I throw it back over the fence into the yard it came from.  Everyone else is intimidated by the people in the house, warning me that we will have to face them if they hear us, but I don’t care.  They do hear us and come out, and we go into their house.  I scold them sternly, and the man agrees that they were selfish.  He becomes friendly, and soon it is evident that they—a couple in late middle age—are glad to have company.  I go outside again while everyone else visits.  Their yard is covered with little wild rose plants that are leafing out, and under them are creeping cedar bushes.  The Sun is already coming up.  As I go back inside, I notice that it is somewhat after 4:00 am—4:20 or so.  I stop to notice the poster on the wall, which shows a sort of cherub in a nimbus of golden light that is maybe also a doorway.
 

The Sickness That Cures All Ills
 

I shall go very slowly, hoping
only to glimpse the glowing face
of one who esteems me wholly noble.
There I shall seek the slightest trace
of what I might be, and find it shining
bright as a new-born star on snow
grown wet with chain-lightning.  Most divine and
miracle-saturated show
of heaven on Earth, conceived by grace of
slow-penetrating sky on ground
already immensely fertile, taste the
elements you and I have bound
together by love’s long art of darkness
brought to the pale of dawn by dear
exertions:  We two have moved a star to
enter a very heavy sphere
and alter it by a single beam of
influence.  In your lovesick eye,
so much delighted shining dreams me
clarity I can quicken by.
 

***
 

26 April 2002
 

This is ‘down’ the way I learned it from Swinburne—as a landscape feature, a down is actually a hill or upland plain.
 

The Phosphorescent Down
 

Lead me down a half-mistaken
bramble-pathway:  Yes.  Declare
a thousand dreams of penetrating
magic tense as any stare
where treacherous delusions linger
like the murmur of a tune
a voice I can’t describe was singing
underneath the perfect Moon
for counter-exorcisms.  When it
whispered, Would I….  I was tired.
You were so completely blended
with the wicked woe-inspired
decision I was contemplating—
thus I understand your work.
Where I dare not hesitate, yes—
even then and there you lurk,
a whisper on your lips, a blessed
glow throughout the very air
you breathe to me.  All my distress, and
still a thousand times more fair
than tender spring in any other
hemisphere—where dreams resound
with magic most ungentle, lover,
there is very fertile ground.
 

***
 

27 April 2002
 

You Recall Yourself to Mind
 

I shall attain night’s twisted echoes’
deepest reminding soon, I vow—
for the human sake of the light that beckons
round and throughout the lunar brow
that bends to touch mine, and all the secret
mazes and pathways found therein.
Just never disclose our lovely leaking
meetings on mental membrane-skin
but by my consent—I hope—I waver—
aye, I beseech you:  Never tell.
Yet it is dawn, while midnight’s savor
seeps like a spoken-language spell
through all the day-world.  I’ve got no place to
hide; I am glass-transparent light.
When was I otherwise?  It makes you
plain to the fast-unfolding sight
that severally flares through all my senses,
holding the one it sought to find
in clarity vivid as relentless:
Aye, you’ve recalled yourself to mind.
 

***
 

28 April 2002
 

A Moment’s Moving On
 

Where you were, the lights are burning
low.  The sighing trees command
a few dry leaves toward a turning
moment.  On a frozen strand
where dying winds still moan, no ocean
crashes to the sand in waves.
Where you used to lie, a lonely
ghost—whose mind, all hollow caves
and dismal moonlit pathways, echoes
plaintively and weakly yet—
conjures potent recollections.
Through their range of filmy wet
miasmal veils your motions spin, but
surges of a distant sea
bestir your veins and temples into
welcoming the ghost of me—
my shadow—most fulfilled of purpose
now, and wakeful—one last shore
beyond the treeline.  Dead leaves murmur
vague laments, but something more
compels you to your feet.  You listen
cautiously, then join the flow—
that inner-outer river-mist-and-
ocean’s voiced ‘I told you so’—
and mine.  Most celebrated witness,
maker, and true dreamer, view
the lore I AM you’ve long admitted:
We shall reach new worlds through you,
and each will find its moment’s turning.
When its leaves are dead and told,
you will be the pyre whose burning
frees their everlasting gold.
 

***
 

29 April 2002
 

We Will Spin Faster Now
 

Thus was the outward view:
Misty low-lying lands;
you with your smile askew;
me with my empty hands;
nobody hale and strong
dancing broad day’s clean air.
Now it has all turned song.
Strange that our standing there
should bring us to such a pass—
aye, but it has, and will.
Already more dreams amass,
crowding the spiral still
beckoning overhead.
Climb with me round one curve.
See where our tears have led.
Bend back to re-observe
this place from a higher stair:
What do you see that’s wrong?
Only a standing prayer
that should be a vibrant song.
 

***
 

30 April 2002
 

Beltane Eve!
 

If You Follow Me
 

Let me begin by leading nowhere
swiftly enough to call a song
into your homesick ken—then slowly
into a place where words, a strong
inducement to future journeys, hold most
 magical sway at all such times.
Then let me tease a sweetly molten
Moon-influential dream that rhymes—
in spite of your awkward hearing—into
sounding this nearness:  Deep inside
the pounding of heartbeat-shaken skin, a
nerve you have very seldom tried
to isolate sings in wild abandon.
Listen:  Its voice is mine, the same
as that you have long relied on.  Scan its
measures, then lift the outward frame
that holds them in place and find a keening
merriment both Moon-wet and hale.
Let me start over:  Secret meanings
riddle the swiftly-growing tale
that waits for you here, in my mind’s compass.
Touch it, and when you have, the skin
so thoroughly sealed will part and hum:  That
nerve’s ancient ache will re-begin
its eloquent luminescent beating.
You will have felt it all too soon—
and then we’ll start over, over-deeply
flooded by waves a windswept tune
bears down from the heights of heaven-here to
sweetly dissolve cold space and all
who linger within it.  We are nearly
nowhere already; come, let’s fall.