I’m tossing and turning in an untypifiable trembling, feverless, convulsive spasm of revulsive yearning for you. I can see your face as I stole it earlier today; I lopped off the mote of light from the beam of which your unutterably precious visage is made to sneak off…… with something that had been free for the asking. I wanted to be alone with you.
And now, the progression I am has again dived inside
to face away from the light I have turned on in my despair of sleep.
But maybe I will still catch me; or maybe the blankness
of having missed the inspiration will seize now and hold it senseless;
or perhaps that burnt seed of Watself will prove to be only playing dead,
and a half-charred lotus blossom will unfold
to cast drifting, blackened bits to the wind,
petals neither having been nor having could have been.
Maybe I will indeed love you.
* * * *
I continue. I plot irreproducible orthography against the lines of old old graph paper.
I reach into me after that poem! — but grasp what only some blood crazed gore harpy could truly love.
And I don’t know what is empty and gone.
I would rage in tears but I am saving them, because I know the day will come and the despair and hopelessness and blindness and ignorance will explode in a sunburst of certain knowledge and motion.
For now however, I contend, writhing patches of moon and cloud, to keep from wasting myself away in petty illuminations of skeleton keys lost long ago in the lamplit grass.