dwindling down to a point in time, a point
a point at which there is known to have occurred
an explosion, and at the infinite specificness of which
the mind boggles.
But my family are still playing at games
unto the third and fourth generations of them
that hate me; and how am I to gamble at passion
if
the lines of your body blur as I come closer?
Far as the eye can see the mind can touch
the prosaic bodice, the upper half of truth;
the naked sex beneath belies your bastard bravery:
the "Agape of the Cross" defies your inquiry.
Love remains a mystery.
I mean, the nineteenth century is just beginning
to be history. All the wars are all over
going on all around us, scattering us like chaff
uncharitably on the chequered fields of dogma,
gathering us up in a husky ecstasy of doubt.
And how
does
it feel to be one of the beautiful people?
and how should I ever dissever the blood/brain barrier
as wildfire stars are raked across my sky
while shadows feed me pills and try to kiss me?
And I am dancing and something like rage or
terror holds me breathless at the point of total
collapse or total recall, and I am laughing
and am beginning to fluoresce, to light up, to come
in colors, when, suddenly everywhere
wildflowers bloom and burst in the insane migraine moraine
over which the bridge between my life and me
suspends
itself
serene
itself
suspends.
Jeffrey Apter
