Tuesday, August 11, 2009


There is a moment
when the naked thing
has got to spring –

the rude afflatus
must inflate –
voracious flesh

can’t not tumesce –
and everything begets
and radiates a trace

of an audacious grace:
a timelessness wherein
the notion that there

ever could remotely
be an end to anything
is as unspeakable

as no would be to yes:
there is a moment
in that secret blessing

of a flow when you,
my dear, appear
to me as if you

couldn’t ever go –
hadn’t ever been away.
It doesn’t stay.


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