![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe9jMpOye0vzDwQQNVzstuUg9EXjbDH1hzvGBWkpo7PmRHKQR4mNyLBf158kkAF4mtTOIB_WF8vM-sZkApGS1pKjaqORTybrr99sLvb5zqek8Peyz85raDn-ADHkNt-pM-u0_W-9-WNfk/s400/afflatus.jpg)
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.
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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