Eros

My eye is upon the springs:
Springs no squalid, shut-in brick – no torrid torrential rains
Nor darkness of the lover’s eye,
Lost in the broken bows and thunder of youth.

No cracked fixity, no window from which I must leap
To evade your death.
No night, no narrows.

Neigh, my eye is upon the springs of the Lord’s sun,
The gasping, golden breast; the blue eye.
Give me this unbroken, unbreakable thunder:
Which trickles like juice,
Rolling down the tongue and cheek of the jest of gods.

I have remarked the gold in the breath of the wind –
Tasted it in the green, nurtured bud.
This land is thick with the fat of god;
Spilling over with the golden red bosom of unaged foils
Of the nuclear sun.

Deliver me the breast; heaving temperament of light –
This balance – no death, but the hunger of trees,
The ascent of the woodpecker to the twisting trunk of the black branch
Which angles upward at bursting dawn,

You are this consequence, toward which I drive:
This grid of shadowy mirrors, toward the encounter of divine mergence.
Lush grasses, beaches without names;
Beating, rushing past ages of settlers; the language of the dead.

Do not mark me! Unknown thing –
Cast into this world, knowing nothing of false, conjured dooms.
There is still a goddess within you, hiding within your lush gape,
Beckoning me with her mouth, lips, eyes.

Where else shall I wander, but towards her, perfection?
I pay no mind and toil to the falling of the sands, crowns.
Isles overrun with the return of the earth.
Beak, you shutter. All else of this world is a fold, illusion of consequence:
Else dreams that die and reveal bone:
Flesh, sand, and wound.

All else falls from me: past, future, portents.
And naught else stands between.
Why else does the air breathe; the sky linger and wander,
But to fat love in time?
Nary to meet hands, but touch souls?

This eye is a deeper gaze, a deeper blue.
An effervescence of orgasmic birth. Thrust; enter spiritual time,
Not to linger in this broken dimension, but unity.
Gather from sand, bone, the quickness of hands;
Crest the bow of light and enter the divine –

Life, this furrow. To leave the burrow of time and flesh and body,
Not to bother with the low creep. For this world there is no dawn,
But souls gasping in flesh. Beneath this veil of blues; shingles,
Stone and fauna writhing for currency,
Seeping in vats of blood.

I do not stew, nor do I lament –
Weightless, lilted toward this sole unspeakable truth.
Give me no fat which waits but for the murder of the butcher toward the beatific sex:
That we meet and come together as one,
Destined mates.

Naught to cleave us between,
No time, nor murmur of trees – which suspends me in the breaking body of life;
Gathers my hands to ash, else consequence besides.
My hands in the vat of time,
Sifting the warm bones.

Not while we still breathe, you and I, never torn asunder,
Nor spiralling where there is no land, no earth, nor sun.
I gave you my eyes; this quiver,
The surety of a fated die, cast far beyond death.
We observe no wood. No metal, no stone.
Breach of gravity’s keep.
We obey no leery eye, nor fashion of a finished age.

You and I,
No longer to crawl. This bone our missive,
Temporary scroll of flesh, blood and bone –
To which we meet and consummate.
Timely, we; our temporary device.
Climb up through the body; meet me in our divine knowing:
This pleasure of spiritual breath;
The quickening redness of your breast.