By Aleksay Calvin
(With mystery of daytime moons,
a charge to eye) with forehead to the frequency of light waves in the sky,
I stare at you across the canyon of our room, from bed. (A human gnosis, contra simulacrae;) Still siren to awakened muscles, morning bursts all sleepier contentions. Gazebo and a lakeside with gondolas fade. A fine and wordless springtime blows from April first a soft assurance that there comes another year, a brand new constellation. I can see that. Yes.
With evocations of lost epochs on the screen, arrives our afternoon, adjusting in the wind; As all that burns excuselessly in passage past borders of our self-exhaustive days, choice is a motion, spurting days delineated - yet, like an echo in the canyon, motion squirms to stay. I watch the brand new constellation. And I know it.
Here every hope dilates on airy beams, veer scents of other things, tobacco, candles, low each drag on our wordless springtime whiff our April first - the sun -cold as a fast, then autumn-dried, leafs scatter from the plant of time, and songs remain the eyes. By lanterns of our choice desire undemanding any mind to think it right or know, nor for a despot world to call us out no certainty, but simply grow, up-threaded through, by laughter: goes that brand new constellation needled to the eyes and carried by the sun. I sigh it.
But only when are unburdened by great senses, schemes. A gap in rushing clouds to show your eye, my eye, beneath mascara. Becomes a smile that cuts across a welcoming, through shadows of disasters, beating screen, we stare, to reaffirms some symmetry of self and leaf. We're stars. And here come fears.
Resistance to some inner fracture, murderous, enthralls me from an armchair. Commotion of low spirits populates a cruelly communal sphere. Okay. Are you okay? The canyon slowly dims, while evocations of an epoch on the screen scream to the calm of evening as a ribbon snapping shut the eyes. Your hand, now mine, will pull out of a messy shuffled deck an ace of hearts. And there's our text: if read, across obscure anticipations, the stars are flaring an eternal Easter when we search, we find. So, giving thanks, into the night, rejoice, and plant the heart
(And I will never ever lie as I have lied!)
Laid bare, within a gap in rushing clouds, your smile that cuts across each weighty stare and says, "Good bodhisattva work!" Inevitably ripens stringless gushed
A happiness that's of the self and leaf
Upon a breath, unburdened, dancing through the canyon of our room.
(The brand new constellation settles by the moon.
And we are almost sleepy.)