23 September 2015
Strong Beauty’s Live Bond
Overflow greener than fields at the height of glad summer, come shimmering over the sky
we hold up our weary heads just this last midnight to watch as such pale flights of magic sweep by,
then wind down and catch the wild lot of us watching. Why was that cloud so surreally low,
and why was I waiting, with you by my side, white in spirit; in flesh—red as blood’s last live flow?
As I grow faint, maybe one of us tends to the other, and dreams settle in for a spell.
Only one not letting go of my hand, the depths of the dreams we can never yet tell
lead all our trained eyes down and over the verge of the well that this ocean’s mistaken us for.
We’ve got a long way to lie sweetly low, sometimes singing ghost-anthems, sometimes white in sore,
sore membranes that hold out twin wings that catch air. Maybe you waft by my side the sweet flag
that determined our needing to fly forth from here—all irises, over a pond fringes tag
with criss-crossing messages lettered all over, hoping the one of our eyes might receive.
I’m watching steadily, high overhead, the source of the light the last soul will believe
before it conveys us the weariest series of words set to nothing: cold drafts of dead air.
In the immaculate moment when no one ghosts by and no magic portends cold despair,
hold out you own first-portended sweet fingers and palms, then shine white as the Moon as she glows—
Overflow greener than fields round the distance of prayer’s holy place—where it guards the sole Rose—
Clouds fill the sky as the rain we have waited for ever so long gathers, leaking small tears.
I shall lie down by the side of the shadow wherever night rain turns old pain to false fears,
and all that is less than the strong, signal meaning of prayer as it turns itself—greener than spring—
Shimmering over the next song’s horizon—you’ve waited forever—my Gemma Renee,
red, hot, and swollen the eyelids who’ll carry the burden of you past the room that’s been locked
for such a long time, all it’s held’s been forgotten, but pain. Pain comes singing downhill, with a shocked,
scarce human, dissolving strange look on her face where lightning’s been striking since time out of mind—
There was your name, as the look on my face recalled you to be where we’ve always aligned.
High and low tides, and the rivers that drink in the fresh and salt waters as both come and go—
Please know how gravity lays its hard, numinous hand on our veins, then recall how they flow
toward the green ribbon of higher-than-tide-lands, and all the vast acres of forest beyond—
Time has no future, no past, and no ceiling—but this: We’re enwreathed in strong beauty’s live bond.