Sunday, November 11, 2007

In the shape of perplexity

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Consider performance—
impromptu gestures that cling
to the skin like poetry or a lover,
an explosion of sorts.

The voice only exists in the palm of
an Etruscan or a traditional praetexta—
sequenced along the waist of white wool,
a hard language on the tongue.

In the pages of a journal, a girl writes
of admiration; threadbare fingers that
move like waves against the text—an acute
sense of place, a poignant thought
that brushes the resistance of the skull.
Canto built-up and returned to the sea.

None of this is simple: unobtrusive,
not a word or grain of sand out of
position— unscathed lips, a painting.
or drawing—art that suppresses art.

But notes scattered in the wind speak
of an instance of oratory, a boy with
eyes like stars...

an all too obvious ache set deep within
them. And the very shape — the color of
his heart, brilliant—breaking distance
that pulls the light to Autumn.

And beyond the softness in her writing,
lies tolerant eyes—they seal the only
cavity absent in her journal with hope
and the warmth of converging again.

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