"Then God began to compose a moving image of eternity."
~Plato, 'Timaeus'
You do not defy gravity.
Your body is a clutter
of dodecahedrons
and other Platonic solids,
luminous mathematical
possibilities described
by the rotation of crystals
in the mind of silence,
love's ephemera, meaning
that your weight is precisely
your degree of presence.
The moment you were born
you touched the asymptotes
of an infinitesimal perfection,
like the first idea of a hand.
Then you fell like a thistle
into this meadow of umber curves
to plow and plant and place
your shimmer of probabilities
on earth, where there is
no emptiness.
The deeper I kneel
in your loam, the more
exalted my kinosis.
What trigonometry of lips
and eyes, dear love,
could shadow your breath
or mimic your light?
And what is more wondrous
than bowing in a galaxy
of dandelions?
As the whole Spring day
will pass through the wing
of a dragonfly,
and the sunbeam will linger
all night in a hologram
of dew,
so you lustrously embody
the yearning of the numberless
for a paramour.

Painting: 'Etaine' by Susan Seddon-Boulet

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