Conjuring
I confess here to conjurings of you,
Somewhat contrived images,
Pictures that I draw,
Without training,
Sans the skill of personal experience;
Nights drawn upon,
Hands held to your stem,
To hold me over,
Until I touch you.
All of you,
In admittedly stylized
Throes of selfish passion;
Your chin raised a thousand miles
Above delicately closed eyes,
Blind to liquid legions,
Of galaxies twinkling,
Pressing you into me,
As red dwarfs raise,
Tiny hairs to attention,
At my nape—
Are my muse.
And I require of you,
These all but static dreams,
To still me through,
The numbing of my senses,
And to move me toward
More meaningful verities
That only beautiful things
Can see,
Away from the banalities,
That corner me into actions,
That I can but wave,
Empty hands at,
In your absence.
Minus your presence,
It is as if these are,
Potter’s fingers clinched to
Nothingness,
Pinching thoughts,
That haven’t yet happened,
And the unfeelingness of not,
Taking hold is,
What unsettles me most.
So, they are an imperative,
These hauntings,
That frolic over the winter grave,
Like a doe’s bound and leap,
With the musk-scented,
Yearns of coming Spring,
In train.
I require them in every sense,
The same as shadows must be,
Moved by dusk winds,
For the leaves of oak men,
To sway—
Permitting that some night-song,
Be loosed in me,
As it is with all that,
Would be immortal.
Then and only then, will I,
venture into the places,
Where emotion is fragrance,
And where words lift up souls,
Like dust,
Where inspiration is the saccharine
Sweat of lust.
Listen heartily to the similitude,
Of the plunging of imperceptible,
Arachnid feet,
Like eight fingers plodding,
The silken strings,
Of cotton harpsichords,
Strung high between branches,
That look down upon,
Laugh lines floating on,
A bubbling spring.
And know that,
You call to me in the,
Whisper-speak of hidden things,
Like friction spread through,
Roughened bow-string,
That lovely frottage,
Over-taught cello tendons,
That teaches dreams to breathe,
Rolling cords that muscle away,
Blank spaces between rage,
And the peace that makes compost,
Of the empty gifts,
That sincere men trade,
And therein I live eternal.
