Thursday, February 10, 2011

In the Space between Things

I.
Steam rises like steeples
Above the white marble,
The surfaces where once they played golf.
It’s hard to believe a place so shiny and cold,
That shows less of its life than a swaying sajuaro
Can turn to a jungle in time
Can blast sewer caps
Off ancient fissures.

The perfection of a scene that can’t move,
Of things that burn with ice when touched
That cannot change into one’s own mind
Thinking – the spinning balls of dreams
Won’t lift, they resist being
Pretended into patterning
As joyful solutions, forms of truth.

II.
How can the angels speak
and no one hear?
How come the chiseled air
becomes so sheer?
As everything I touch
breathes from my lungs
Some silent breath
with vast mother tongues
In exponentials from my arms
to harmonize
In endless loving space
to colonize
With wings the structures
of the hive
Mathematics
make it alive
With humming likeness
newly recognized
To spin the not
to vagaries of size
Expressing all the silence
in geometries
Hurtling through the cold
so fires know freeze.

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