You see, sometimes I find that my hands becomeĪware of themselves, or that my exhausted forehead You lovers, contented with one another, I’m asking youĪbout us. Of shame, maybe, and half out of ineffable hope. Who let it all go by like some weightless exchange of breath.Īnd everything agrees not to speak of us, half out Lovers might, if they only understood, speak awe-inspiring Of pregnant women? Who don’t notice it as they revolveīack into themselves. Of our essence also? Are we an ingredient in theirįeatures, much like that vagueness seen in the faces Or sometimes, as though by mistake, a little Merely recapture their own, what they first poured out, Into then taste of us? And is it true that angels
New, warm, receding ripple of the heart – Īlas, but that is what we are. What is ours lifts away from us, like warmth aboveĪ steaming dish. Who then is holding them back? Semblance constantly Is filling up with you … Does it matter? he can’t hold on to us, Yes, you’re seeping into my bloodstream, this room, this spring Ourselves out and away ember to glowing ember Mirrors, each recreating itself in each while pouringįor we, wherever we feel, diffuse, oh, we breathe Ravishing tumults, and suddenly, one at a time, Spaces made of Being, crests of rapture, cyclonic,
Upthrust heights, earth’s sierras tinged rose-redĬusps of light, hallways, stairs, thrones, Joyous from the start, creation’s beloved companions, Now, if the archangel stepped like a threat from behind the starsĪnd took a single stride down towards us, our own pounding (one young man curious about another young man, as he looked outside). Partly disguised for the journey, and no longer frightening The realm of radiant beings one stood at a plain front door, Where has it gone, the age of Tobias, when from Though I shouldn’t, I am singingĪt you, all but lethal birds of the soul, in full knowledge
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