Thursday, November 17, 2016


Souls in the throes of being beckoned into bloom,
are not, like human bodies in the womb,
insensible to stages of their own construction:
indeed they monitor their phases of production

with a curiosity quite like an infant brings
to looking in a mother’s eyes: enjoying wellsprings
of surprise at their new vast capacities of seeing,
undisguised, how elements of love engender being:

bubble-like, inviting trouble, cataracting into fizz,
without which you would never know what passion is,
then permutating into nano-bits that burrow in
the soft smooth folds of Soul’s equivalent of skin:

the force that through the green fuse drives the flower
soon entirely arrives to bring about, and power,
the exorbitant expanse of what a Soul will tuck
into the Soul’s equivalent of pants: nerve and pluck

that grant the Soul its muscularly tempered substance:
evincing throughout all a soft hubbub of sense
that vibrates through the essence of the core of you,
to underscore the certainty that there is more of you,

always more of you, aglow
with what you cannot know.


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