 | |
|
An ode for the infinite space between
"making love and love made"
I
Of all the things that move on Earth,
and of Earth itself, the only two that
clung
were her lips.
II
As a body leaning
into another is a sin,
and as the sin is an
occasion of celebration,
if the blood flows to her lips.
III
Her lips, too, fall
yet it’s the common
courtesy of muses.
IV
(Except for maybe when
the 21st century machinery is too tired
to endure the metallic cry
and our souls like sleek industrial cogs
desire to go up & up & up
o how? how would they know?
of heaven’s rosy and timid gates?)
V
The universe revolves nonetheless,
and with it, us, and with us, our gazes,
and our gazes around her lips.
VI
entangled
he says
entangled to the blood
are the lips
and the hands
and entangled must be
the lips and the hands
too
her lips untangle.
VII
I am of many minds,
yet all seem to flee the brain:
her lips like time.
VIII
Dusk in Canaan,
the dust not yet settled,
my heart:
the oracle of a love
that never yet was
but surely will be.
IX
There are earthlier things
like the stuff that moves
in the hunter’s hands
and breathes warmly;
her lips the beast stripped
of the fur and the fury,
her hips alike.
X
We fall
amidst the leaves of fall,
and cling together: Sun
lights up her lips, the color
that fall leaves have.
XI
Her lips were childbirth,
mortality, endless veins,
the circle of life, the inverted
pyramid of priorities, and
among many other things
herald of something eternal
like the bird that sings the spring.
XII
The spring blooms, and with it
terrible lovers! Terrible lovers
everywhere! Under the trees!
In reflections! Between minds!
Terrible lovers! Her lips alive
through the seasons, except for
maybe the harsh winter that
cracks it open. In those cracks,
terrible lovers! What good
is a lover not terrified?
XIII
And on the eighth day,
they created the dimples,
the smile, the red and the white
and the everything in between
the cheeks, and fields of rye
the color of her hair and the sea
and everything else.
No comments:
Post a Comment