In those revenant reveries
and so defying the lethargy of endings,
many come and enter—
though only briefly,
dipping no more than lightly
into those coral eyes,
they would suddenly turn
into drifting sailors
launched on the boundlessness
of everlasting seas
where all are bound to sink--
so much more potent is
that pristine light
than a touch of Styx.
A petite fountain
Is gurgling up
Its nether stream
Through a silver film
In quiet parallel
To our cinemas,
their caves
and darkened screens.
And those little
garden leaves
quiver side by side,
in unison even
with her knees—
all become one lover’s fan.
The morning July sky is gladly clad
in high white clouds—
gently ribbed, suggesting a breast
formed by a passing angel.
And I wonder—am I here below
alone in my awe
and my skyward gaze
by which silence grows,
stepping into courting eloquence?
