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