The landscape thinks itself in me,
and I am its consciousness.
-Cezanne
Bedlam fair, a far cry from–
An alarm of silence behind it. How the future retreating into a painting
is part. Against your will.
Eyes closed.
Eyes opened under water.
Though it is something you see, you feel it inside
your mouth, earth-flavored,
and your lungs’ motion exactly like waves, filled with water light.
He who hath drunk the mixture called “Doctor”,
milk, nutmeg, water & rum, to cure the King’s Evil…
He who couldn’t care crushed bugs in the meadow…
Where Aspen trees offer winter’s first coin.
Where the maps printed lily-outlay, saw the high ground in blood.
Where the unmoved moon covet in full-face snow, like sleeptalk.
Where you can locate a glass bead, the size of his thumb, drawn
butterflies, inside the larynx, the voice-box singing and singing for you,
in mourn & celebration, awe’s act of only air, less alone by the minute.
Such ascent between music & mathematics
at the sky’s all-ache helm blue…
Therefore, godly hour.
Therefore, overgrown & undone.
Everything, if by love, is imperfect.
Shining indecipherable, we are at that moment.
To unfurl and flower, as if
saying farewell.