it was with greater risk that I knew
that when I let you in,
your metaphysics, my being would acquaint
itself to such metanoia:
that there was such an air in your voice
that would sway me a forest and give me
a necklace of sunlight. like a well-oiled machine
I let your gruel work its way like a beast
claiming the calm, like the youth purloining the silence,
like the death making most frugal the earth and its troves.
little night, black bird of my heart: when you
take your flight in me, solder me up
there, vertiginously above the floor:
all those of much the land that coats
our feet’s trembling aches,
all that still laughs
without what joy shapes with its motherly hands
where you assume the stillness as something
the shadow languages and transfixes
in all of the days
lays captured, a darkness too
halved, voyaging without eyes, in every direction
eclipsing with the sound of incontrovertible music,
echoing, rippling in me with
alterations.
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 3:24 AM UTC
it was with greater risk that I knew
that when I let you in,
your metaphysics, my being would acquaint
itself to such metanoia:
that there was such an air in your voice
that would sway me a forest and give me
a necklace of sunlight. like a well-oiled machine
I let your gruel work its way like a beast
claiming the calm, like the youth purloining the silence,
like the death making most frugal the earth and its troves.
little night, black bird of my heart: when you
take your flight in me, solder me up
there, vertiginously above the floor:
all those of much the land that coats
our feet’s trembling aches,
all that still laughs
without what joy shapes with its motherly hands
where you assume the stillness as something
the shadow languages and transfixes
in all of the days
lays captured, a darkness too
halved, voyaging without eyes, in every direction
eclipsing with the sound of incontrovertible music,
echoing, rippling in me with
alterations.
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