it is many things
solitary -- through ripeness
and rawness, through the
locomotion of dancers,
and sensibilities of
quiet tongues.
it is the many things you
give alone, its persistent comma, its continual ellipsis.
the inundation of delineations
and the gravity of its punctuation.
with its fingers meandering
to touch a soul's lifted ether,
or simply to hush and still
repugnant waters - astonishing
all nebula with its largeness.
it is so many intentions,
yet, a single iteration.
inveigled are the white shadows
of walls streaked with black light.
what
is
it?
it is perhaps an impending collision,
to no soul's severance:
it is the meshwork of grace
or foolishness;
it is the working of the word
from so many lovers and singlehandedly nailing us to our
stationed cicatrices.
love's epigraphic, weightless,
no more than size of
a captured wave in net
of stone: concealed in an eye's
limitless space.Q