In his First Communion suit, Rimbaud seated
in my bedroom corner, he trains his lens,
not the motionless, worshipped hare’s shocked eye,
but hermit, hourglass, the final sandgrain’s decision.
“You could probably place the word vast on my tongue,
but I am really not your hurdled lunar,
unless you hear the catastrophe of time.”
It was routine to hide my torchlight, torches
under the horses’ overturned water trough,
every wave of beauty’s photonic triggers
sealed in Mason jars on wooden shelves.
Given catalytic desire, given desire’s
chain reactions, from the body’s surface
urges to aquifers of naked intention directed
wholly unto wholly unto wholly…
for a time an athlete’s body would otherwise
have been a beautiful rope lowered from the sky
by the rescuing hand of Sol Invictus.
“Elsewhere is the anchoress of here.”
Behemoth jaws of stormcloud devour panorama.
Lime-washed trellis in an arbor. Attention
to wine drops solemnly bluing a napkin. Subject
of mysterious still-life in an antique frame.
A blow to sight, the lavender of attention.
I want to be wherever I am perennial.