I think that poetry should stay
awake all night drinking in dark cellars. - Thomas Merton
Look to the body for metaphor.
Look to blood, use this word
in relation to dreams or flowers
while silver runs in veins which
are usually streets or vines.
Breasts, male and female,
are stars, have to do with
a handful or feet to span them.
Abdomen, then, is a great
Milky Way gathering,
holding, expelling comets,
carillon colons' humming.
Spleens are bones
to pick teeth with, teeth
which are, of course,
sea horses or gravestones
bearing images of the Flagrant
Heart to tame this spot
of gypsum and flint, to charm
where Violin's cut throat sings
itself awake, one black breast
out of its fold slapping metal seas
against dropping metal shores in
Sidelight's shadow across this
hand writing now, slap of waves
mute in this stillness of knees.
So lend a darkness to gardens,
ancient pattern of a breast,
cloth lightly lifting, black on black.
From Her chest reveal a slenderer throat
that nods when she swallows,
proclaims her peace.
The delicate will not pass away just yet.
Great Seamstress of Space
with fingers of dew.
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