an entangled thing
this womb i bear
its blood my heart
my home
it stirs in arms
that close its soul
and never claims
the whole
but in its will
is some thing soft
and in its clasp
is my name too
the light reneges
once in a while
falls blunt upon me
but the womb
i hold within
is light enough
for me
instants
meting out and marking the spartan scent
i undid the clasp and moved forward
breathe becoming a mere anachronism
hinting at life which moved beyond
it was akin to worship this momentary
and elaborate focus, meditative and subtle
here the heart beats without remiss
beating against the flesh, against
and soon i am untempered
with motion as my guide and blind
i am a man lead by spirit, sooner
engaged in nuance and innocence
the beauty of it, exquisite
demands and ever presence
and i am irrevocable, irreverent
and irked at the sounds that ram
and melt like suborning sin
against the hells of heat
mouth makes hardly perceptible resonance
in the deep, caught within the deep
writhing and wresting the god
from the deposit
anon and i am awake
and ready to sleep
the stubborn wind would not die down
it raged outside and inhabited the house
with gust that stirred us inside
the wind knew no solemnity
for it breached the house
with happenstance and creaking
i heard the ironing board inside
moving sideways with a familiar sound
the clipping of the wood and the flush
of water and of steam, then silent
there are no mirrors here
i thought and looking up saw
a painting and my face
and i knew i was wrong
mirrors grace the graceless
without remiss
and i had seen, would see
i lay down summoning
the last of my tepid energy
to dream of life, of death
and more than that
to dream of a mirror
the wind stirred against the house
the house resisting its immanence
hiding in its crevices
the wind understood only
that it understood nothing
