“Invisibly Yours…”
Not answers, but doorways—
and thus, far more.
Not unlike plums and pines
on old Chinese silks—
where each tree: a window,
veiled in silence,
and so smoothed
into a swan-white field,
a page of light spread thin—
or a face that closes
at the touch:
a brief glimpse—deeply pressed,
a passing nearness,
until, brushing
one another’s oneness,
in that single flash
recovered—uncovered—
both in
and out of time.
Oh, where did she shit?
Between Eros and Beauty
and Wisdom and Xu,
the measure of emptiness.
Between stillness and the abyss
teeters what is young on toes.
And if it is a girl—
her legs are wrapped
like torching stalks
in floral, throbbing crowns:
how many countless angels
have thus been brought low?
What do mountain rivers know
of where their next bends go,
as they fill deep dykes
over smoothly polished stones?
And there, insight and time
delay their promised hour,
even waiting to be sought—
but who was it who said:
“To unlock wisdom well,
one does not need a heart?”
Or is not kairos another word
for fortitude—
that endures until it is ready
to match the punctilious step
of the Moirai,
and their scale that lifts or dips,
until one learns at last
the way by which
wisdom is wooed?
