I oppose the Sun regularly as if I
define its intervals. The complements
build contrast, form is telling stories
within the revolutions. I am counting
her surfaces, her fingers, in her eyes
I'm lost finally. There is a rich blue
or purple tint in the sky before she
falls asleep beside me. I'm in love
without ideas, without images, without
names or symbols. I might participate
like a tritone, a triune god, a trial
of unfailing love. The freedom I feel
comes from service, her tables of worship
illumine the irregularly turning Moon.
No comments:
Post a Comment