Above a drone, I imagined her in
The shelving of my mind, traipsing about
The content in a seamless sort of dance,
Being the word I'm here hopelessly reading.
When I had first apprehended that light
I thought I must have deluded my self
Because it seemed so brilliant it was hard
To find a language representing it.
And still I'm looking, yearning; in the curves
Of opened books I think I catch a fragrance
Of folding nectar, Arabic dialects,
Several foreign vowels enunciated
In a pattern lithely choreographed
In a nonsense language of full disclosure.
No comments:
Post a Comment