it's the soul to breath
an imprint, a sign
of the past, the ghostly spectacle
of something sacred,
the pure moment
of the complete, remembered emotion
which permits the spirit to become
the very blood of the body of our
most trusted experiences.
Before: the acute signal
the petals of the dandelion sends
to yellow, the sound
of knowing, the reverbatory glowing,
and the silence following:
the brush of the curtains as they
reveal the gluttonous majesty of the blob
is only near the center of the
purest thing,
the spirit which moves with the wind
to glitter the cold silver skin
of ecstasies, so loftily studding the skies...
and under the candle flickers to melt
all the disappointments which, living
once seek the most clever disguise:
irony is my coiled flesh to linger so
near you, near me, and the quick, rude
awakening of
the sprouts of the heart.