There is no tinge of blindness while this lithe
trance perfects my capture:
apprehension is lopped by a scythe
of awareness, rapture
bursts in my fingertips, being and care
dance off the moment everywhere–
Now, tangled sheets of sense catch largess
(your stillness), swell and sweep the furthest recess
as if time never left a dropping;
so bound by the electric catenas
from designless irises sopping
the stems of my retinas-
when I blink-stall... and fall to the bottom stair. ...
One cannot stray in heaven's forehead of air
for long. The instant comes unstrung.
Yet, souls plot to slip life's
not,
be rid of size,
take off its scent of flesh
as a mask, be free and fresh;
but, if they rise,
the trap of the mind sets off a thought,
sucks them down, wind and lung
and, as they wet it like autumnal rain,
it longs to know them
seem
to part again.
