Tuesday, March 29, 2011


The relic of a passion, fashioned carefully
by hand – too many years ago to understand –
remains in situ: not a statue, just a bust –
come upon by accident (if there is ever
such a thing) – emerging in the dust on the long
shelf that lines the edge of the abyss of self.
You see it there and without thinking, pick it up

and press it to your lips: the kiss brings to it
a small flushed fairy tale exuberance, lit
from within – as such phenomena have always
been, two layers down in a dimension still
illuminated by a pleasure close to sin. Memory
is Galatea, glowing – sometimes – unpredictably –
as if to call you to embark: then growing dark.


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