Furtive, fleeing eyes
Secretive without disguise
Say naught, and nor
Will they— say, fleeting lore
Upon lore upon lashes
Strung— say, sweet clashes
Of arrows’ white delights
Unsung, into the brown nights
Preserved— where thought may not
Blood and shudder, where touch may not
—In seas dark
Where black moons talk
Of soft wars, and where they await
And await
Some familiar sly bells
Where a gaze intricate dwells
A stilling tether—
Then twisting together—
Breath at leisure, time at leisure—
Whenever, whenever! Wherever!
Clinging—
And ringing,
A dance so sure!
Flush, and rush, a trance so pure!
Oh, talk and talk
A lark and a hawk
Wave at rest, beat and bird at rest—
Parting, then—
and filled a chest with breathing unrest.
Then slide away—swift, your way
And I too, scuttling astray
Eyes their secrets mirthfully keep
Yet leap on star from star; and too deep seep
And tug and tug
Wild seas— wild tug—
Nov 10, 2021
Nov 10, 2021 at 11:44 AM UTC
Furtive, fleeing eyes
Secretive without disguise
Say naught, and nor
Will they— say, fleeting lore
Upon lore upon lashes
Strung— say, sweet clashes
Of arrows’ white delights
Unsung, into the brown nights
Preserved— where thought may not
Blood and shudder, where touch may not
—In seas dark
Where black moons talk
Of soft wars, and where they await
And await
Some familiar sly bells
Where a gaze intricate dwells
A stilling tether—
Then twisting together—
Breath at leisure, time at leisure—
Whenever, whenever! Wherever!
Clinging—
And ringing,
A dance so sure!
Flush, and rush, a trance so pure!
Oh, talk and talk
A lark and a hawk
Wave at rest, beat and bird at rest—
Parting, then—
and filled a chest with breathing unrest.
Then slide away—swift, your way
And I too, scuttling astray
Eyes their secrets mirthfully keep
Yet leap on star from star; and too deep seep
And tug and tug
Wild seas— wild tug—
10/11/2021
White delights: quick, and clinging, blinding and conquering delights. So viscous and true, white and white without any intruding hue. Where I see nothing, as I see nothing when I see the sun— yet a mighty star, all fitted (though barely) in my gaze is more than just nothing. Yet nothing, nothing still, for such a purity could not be a thing else.
White delights: like silver winds, like sharp hiss of an arrow as it explores the sky — finally, finally alive— before it hits the ground and is a bird no more.
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