I do not know what to call it,
this
transcendence of pi,
the
unending double-helix,
the
rain that becomes stream
that
becomes sea and cloud
and
then rain again,
the
sorceress who appears
randomly
in technicolor dreams
in
robes of royal blue,
the
tantalizing twist,
the
asymmetry and abandon
of
Tantric sex.
But
sometimes, oftentimes,
it
takes upon itself a voice,
whispers,
cajoles, moves me
from
here to everywhere.
I
call it Lover Julie
because
it speaks to me
in
numbers and rain,
in
incantations bright,
erotic
dance, sensual desire.
She’s
fond of hiding
around
the corner
in
the hallway of an old school
of
mahogany and stairwells.
“Come,
come,” she says.
She
is an angled beam
of
yellow morning sun
streaming
through the window,
and
I am a dust mote
floating
in her ecstasy.
~William Hammett
Site Map
No comments:
Post a Comment