Sunday, August 11, 2013
Poetry maintains its mystery by quartering in small spaces. It coils, assumes the fetal position--fondles its own toes and heels. The skin of it pulls back and is revelatory at the most sacred moments. It vocalizes in the hush; ricochets between the canyons of cushioned, still, lips.
Poetry waits.
Orchard, magenta, mango, and fuchsia sheets billow across the evening sky. Stark are the birds against the fluorescent yawning. The eyelids of the sun grow heavy, and the toiled tongue retires from its facades. Poetry reverberates in the throat of the vocalist-----unfurls in sprawling twilight.
Slight is the inclined ear; only one hears. Poetry is enigmatic with no regard to tuned down dials. Her eyelashes fan; her purple expounds the heavens. Cursive letters curl and course black and ivory eloquence through her veins. Her honey hands ooze nectar--are soft with mothering intention. Her calloused fourth finger is revelatory of the art hanging inside her. She is monumental architecture; her arches are gold-her edges are smooth. She is carved into finely---first at the brow, then at the breast, then between her toes. Her maker polishes her as if she is invaluable---believes some man with a broad back will cradle her in his chest. He doesn't know he needs her yet; she understands his humanity. Her gypsy feet are draped with sequined curtains of black and violet. The mirrors in her face illuminate the night as stars peer into her. She is the shape of a secret.
Beds of smoke transcend navy atmospheres. As the grey collects, as ember burns to ash, Poetry wreathes in her headdress of ocher and Autumn. She dances in the quiet hems between seasons--in the unrecognizable transitions. Heat escapes a burning August; the poet begs for no oxygen. The composer awakens early to watch the coals cool into a tepid September. The rest of the world pulls tight their parkas. The poet morns the loss of the in-between.
