Here, you in the middle.
Music in dancing smoke.
Dense vaporous heat wrapped
in red
ripples and shards carry and
throw
light bent, fractured panes
strewn before open eyes
widely receptive, a hungry
glint
absorbing the whole shaft.
Do not speak of experience
like goosebumps and
coincidence,
deja vu and waking dreams
worn
on this path. You picked the
way
reflected back in pouring
pail eyes to
spinning sapphire seas stuck
inside your inertial feeling.
You cannot tell
of the way the moon
holds onto you in the crook
of its long arm showing you
more.
Or how the sun
seduces you under its warm
endless well
of desire to strip you down,
and suck you up.
Do not try to repeat what
was implied
in the language
of hummingbirds that hover,
of cats that crowd around
you,
of swaddled babes enrapt,
of elderly enduring and
shaking
off your ghosts.
You stood under all too
well. Father time and Mother earth,
hospitable surrogates
serving
senseless, undecipherable
epiphanies.
You see.
Image of painting by By William Savage Cooper, Phantasy c.1896 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
