When, in mute wonder
of it, in the night, in awe,
I dress that goddess
who is my lonesome Soul
crying to join everything
as though it were all
one
and the same;
and there is a terse magic,
a fine prism in the palm
that showers answers upon these walls
for us to dance,
in waltz for solitude, and on; and one.
And when, in having told
you
of this intensity
brought on by the songs like
slow and tender flames
who hug the outskirts of a heart
and threaten to consume
what is once, no more: I,
paralyzed by the beauty
that I see—I fail to show you
what I’d just glimpsed in a flare
of rapture, and then back
like the child found naked in woods
and brought back and chained to a desk
and from whom a proof
is demanded—a proof! or tyranny.
05/15/2016
West Vancouver
after Bleed Confusion