ONLY CENTURIES AWAY:
shall
we not continue then/ is it not up to us/ to stake out a course/ and
define the territory/
shall
we not navigate and find our way then/ on and through and by way of
each other/ by what we know/ and accept/ from that which we blindly
trust/ to that which we fully love/
by
way of non-descript star systems on white breasts/ watery beads on a
spring day/ dripping into oblivion/ or condensating into hot air/
into hot universes/ observed for milliseconds only/ by an
astronomer's gaze as he peers out of the bushes/ time enough for a
few constellations to be bashfully known/ but not enough for any to
be named/
to
mark a trajectory on a sleeping belly/ strewn with foxes hair/
masquerading the advance of miraculously light fingers/ tangentially
tippity-toeing along the untended barricades/ into the midst of the
den/
and
on a freckled summer's day/ draw a line from above-closed-eyes
forehead/ to the soft valley of a venetian landscape/ where trying
fingers thread the waters like inexperienced gondoliers/
shall
we not continue to pursue each other then/ under light paper blankets
of summer/ under crisp duvets of autumn time/ under furry skins of
mammoth and bison in winter/ and rustle with anticipation in a
squirrel's nut shell in spring/
shall
we not ignite with promises/ on the longest day of the year/ by seas
or lakes/ wiping crawfish juice and tears of joy from chins with
soggy napkins/ watching seals, seagulls and ducks/ and wide varieties
of made-up creatures/ contemplate somersaults/ in the sparkling,
watery distance/
shall
our unbridled self-involvement not lead us then/ to forget about SCUD
rockets and covert operations/ drone attacks/ and UN forces forever
standing idly by/
shall
we not be so wonderfully selfish then/ as to carve a diamond cave in
an unchartered territory/ to settle down there/ and incubate and
cultivate tiny wonders privately/
shall
we not sit by the hot stone in winter/ and count the numbers of
wonders and apparitions since having first met/
shall
we not count the hours of peace before nightfall/
shall
we not draw a line from the end of one tiny nose/ to the end of
another tiny nose/ making it impossible not to fixate/ to have gazes
locked on above-nasal area/ the concentrated superhighway of lust and
desire/
should
our world not stay congested then/ so that it would always have to be
blasted wide open/ always had to be sprung out/ like an italian
mobster in a much too tiny cell/ if for nothing else/ so that there may
be an open space/ where the laundry can be hung out to dry/
