“Of heaven, not as lemma, not as leaven, but as substance we enfold…”
for Gerrit, in memoriam
To peel the tangerine harrowing of hell.
Breakfast at midnight. Breakfast at all.
Books unwrap from bodies.
Tristan’s dark Sâr Palomedes.
To be responsible in bed is bad.
Let flesh sting its books awake,
in the pleasaunce of recognition the veil entails
come exotic lovers to love’s surprise.
You wouldn’t tell me if you thought it
bad, because it is the case
the angel herself comes
to administrate her unreachable perfections.
A dark eye in the dark to rub,
with hand in the tree’s crotch bends the branches
in downward ecstasies.
We are grippers. Calyx. Chalice of imperfection quartz
that smites sight-like through translucent consonants
mid flower’s idle gallop.
Light is nice if the Image is good.
Ye gods: So say the trees.
These pasts endure towards the terms of definition:
from below blaze through the forest’s core, of which I know.
Desire’s arrow paces a madness and bends to their sore wings
bent in the wood. Heavenly speech drawn towards the lips of the bow.
Dry stars will whistle warning.
The silver dollar plant, called “annual honesty,”
or if they get past that, tansy in your eggs.
Mind clear and nothing in it,
exact aperient fancy.
The moment sweeps clean for the tree incidental.
In its rhythm it reveals.
Offers climb sparkling,
for all views are you.
Dazzling, there is only one moment.