As irrefutable as things sound
in Latin, it only makes sense
If you can dance to it. It's an old
condition, the rhythm
Of the human heart overcoming
what the numbers say
At their most impossibly logical and eerily
prescient.
We are too soft
for negation, as powerful
as it makes us feel,
as long as we have this
flesh
there's compassion
for the heaviness
of afternoons,
their impervious reliquaries of gold,
where smoke is bogarted
to thresholds,
those holes where living goes
to be alone
And not just one more inarticulate host
pointing to noise in the emptiness,
a supposed, more remote country
Where whatever was said fell out
like a story,
such was the distance that it seemed
so close, an extension
of what we weren't saying,
'Til slowly your own clothes
came off in the play
of your inflamed absence
with their absent lust.
There were eyes but that's not what we shared
in the darkness of the finally vulnerable.
It was that we were vestibules at last,
a room through a door
that was a wall
the moment before
And you wondered how you ever thought
it was otherwise,
when you
stood as the rose in the night, waiting
for an eye to carry you
Where you could see past the obstruction
of your being
And into the pupil that learns yet again
that to observe is to be observed.
Desire exists on its own somehow
trying to calm us down.
