Nebula drift and Jupiter spin,
the
Eiffel Tower reduced to a pin
affixing
a doctor’s appointment to bulletin cork—
everything’s
blended in geometry’s torque.
No
longer mortal or venial sin,
only
a day in the life in run-of-the-mill.
Broken
hearts rush down a fire escape,
then
dash madly to find lascivious lovers
to
the third power who will kiss and tell
the
odyssey of dancing on the small of the back
with
fingers that know the teasing tarantella well.
Have
you tried the absent leaning on a windowsill?
Everything
is careening in the tumultuous now.
The
future is spinning on the eternal roulette
while
the past is world-weary from the blade of a plow.
Sing
to this trumpeting or pluck the lute
as
you would a lover to make music unmute.
Margaret’s
not grieving the dead poet’s unleaving,
for
the great bang and whistle-stop is spilling champagne
from
magnums onto the fantail, fruited, alluvial plain.
I
am in love with love, with the girl on the street
who
has given me her address with a wink of the eye.
It
is after the Flood and long after Eve.
Who
cannot revel in ivy carving veins in the stone,
in
the Medieval joust, in the court jester’s grin?
I
swear by the Southern Cross now riding the sky
that
everything is saved, that everything is right.
It
is unnecessary to divide concrete this from arbitrary that.
All
is pure potential, realized or not, Brahma’s self-revelation
rising
from the well of a magician’s hat.
~William Hammett
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