The orgasm that matters
is the one that lasts forever.
The others were just signs,
intimations of some
darker elegance
at the center of whirling light.
Your crown explodes
and all the names pour out.
they are not yet created.
Nothing has a label now.
Thoughts dissolve in the bee-hum
of an ungleaned meadow
owned by no one.
Relics of rusted armor lie
in the clover, husks
of some forgotten battle
in the clover, husks
of some forgotten battle
in your heart.
A helmet full of sod,
a breastplate shot
a breastplate shot
with Autumn crocuses...
They teach you ancient tears.
Yet this a place for forgetting echoes.
Because nothing has a name
you navigate by fragrance,
guided from blossom to blossom
by a longing that foams over
the brim of your perfect contentment
like mead, the honeyed wine
that Jesus shared with Mary
from the cup of his gaze.
A kiss that is everywhere
needs no lips.
Not that the body becomes useless,
Not that the body becomes useless,
but "I" no longer need
to whisper "Thou."
Your veil is the wilderness,
the wedding of all things green,
the wedding of all things green,
consummated by weaving
Winter to Spring.
Anointed with the chrism
Winter to Spring.
Anointed with the chrism
of this breath,
you wear the whole vineyard
you wear the whole vineyard
as a wreathe crown.
Was there ever a Bride,
a Bridegroom?
Or have they always been braided
like rays of sun and moon
Or have they always been braided
like rays of sun and moon
on the trellis of your missing rib?
In this entangled garden,
In this entangled garden,
vows are broken
every moment a moist bud bursts
into petals of fire.
Image: Flora, detail, Sandro Botticelli
Image: Flora, detail, Sandro Botticelli
1 comment:
Always preciuos tahnk you Fred. A Hug Riccardo
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