AEAEA
Recurring Dream Island

January 2005
 
 

7 January 2005
 

Beyond Yet Another Pale
 

Though want has stolen you—no one devoted you—
told you not notice me soldiering on,
once the long grasses have grown and enfolded you,
who will have shown you such dreadful dead dawn-
drawn enchantment and sung you its severally riddled
devices, now mortally fragmented?  Why
must I ask you?  The leaking left lung of love’s little
breath-grasping desire is frustratedly dry;
I am likewise, its literate heir and misfortune;
thus reads this inscription—its final estate.
Still only weeping and wept, tried and sordid
and twisted, but chosen and stolen our fate
from the mouth of a free-flying—Lover, be witnessed
again and again—feather-force, clean and hale,
I am sky in a time of deep drowning:  I litter
your way with sound stars whose breaths ever unpale.
 

***
 

14 January 2005
 

Climate
 

The similar shaking inside that came over me
ages ago—let her seek to perceive
who must seem and be made its much-heightened dream lover
through lingering stages in which worships weave
to assemble strange pattern-epiphanies.  Reach for
the reason that shaking occurs:  how the wind
out of rainy grey heaven moves dancingly, feet on
the most singing march, heartbeats tendered through skin
that lies leaking a weightless blue essence, bewildered
again and again by the tremors it makes
in the spirit behind its appearance.  A silken
remembrance repeats a long ribbon that shakes
us immense, over-awed.  Far beyond woven longing,
a heartbeaten hand shivers over a pane
set with snowflakes.  A very long-drawn—I am gone, but
a moment of star-frosted breath might remain.
 

***
 

24 January 2005
 

The De-Blurring
 

Eleven-sent, red-waving tresses went streaming
our sideways.  Had I known it then, I’d have sworn
I’d have never—It entered me then, the high meaning
I seemed to have died—and been screaming reborn.
Higher hearing, come need; higher dancing, enfold me;
oh higher still dream, spill me out, salt and red;
I’ve woken up wet running seed; I am only
a lust-shade of hair; I am only a bled
subtle ache of enchantment, and you who are leaning
to listen down spirally in, in, and in
come to deepening love with a luminous secret
who knows you have touched our love’s loneliest skin
with a glance that must breed curiosity.  When will
it shatter, this lock of sleep’s blood’s fragile spell?
When shall we dance the deblurring that meant us
this magic—and sent it to reap us full swell?
 

***
 

31 January 2005
 

In Need of Enchantment
 

Enchantment—take warning—you can’t, though; its form of
idea-creation leads time after time
to the threshold of dreaming so magical, mortal
well-being seems meaningless.  Seek now to climb
past terrestrial elements severally, singly,
and—solely.  Release the slow shadow called ‘I’.
Be heavenly, deeply bound round with the ringing
that dances you wholly beneath the moaned sky
till its white-tilted angle reveals its wave-blessing.
There, but for strangeness—and ‘I’ am its child—
all our slow-woken silk will have shifted—the dress of
a still-floating ghost on a plane reconciled
with a world that was Earth but has since become—shoring
its subtle solidity up against touch
over yearning dimensions—to wake without warning,
we know what we need—to be loved overmuch.