To London (Again)

Welling sensually up from somewhere
at the center of you comes a plume,
a channeled coalescing bloom of feeling –
warmed as if by some strange secret
magma – which quietly asserts its

slow investigation in repeating rhyme:
a fine collective cadenced assonance
which, as it rises, seeps into, infuses all
the soft surrounding tissue – porous walls –
of consciousness – with some new

propagating prize: proliferating
and insinuating – probing, staining
all the fibers of you with its deep
red-purple purpose: visceral sweet sense –
utter private rightness – calm and deep

as velvet, spreading into everything
and bringing it alive: receptive as
a cat’s night-seeing eye. Ah – the slyly
wonderful decision it has made you make!
(Can almost smell faint-diesel-tainted-

late-night-damp-leaved river air.
Remember when?) In late November,
for a week, you’ll go back to the wedding
cake of London and receive her lovely
murky benediction once again.

.