Empty space
Tautology
At its best,
a beautiful way of
saying nothing at all
The phrasing makes me
Think of you and my
Strange expectations
Your strange yieldings
To what I have never said

I think of you
Opening sky-like
Your mouth, your legs, your arms
The edges of a firmament
Within which I find
Endlessness itself

I can wander in this
Hold on to it
Wrap myself like vines
Without a wall

Is it not strange?
The vines never find
The knots and tangles
Celts never did until
The barrier is gone,
Competition for sun
Fades like a sound
Having forgotten its voice

The vines struggle with
Themselves on Gaia's
Patient breast and
Find a rhythm, a texture
A vulnerable breath
Of singularity

You are that Tao
That universe contained
Within flesh and I
Am an eye, a gazing,
A longing, a circumspect
Wish to never corrupt
Drinking you, as you are
Wine of eyes, heart
Racing calm

And only you may
Lace that notion of
Hesitance with oxygen
Among my inhalations

And there you are

All demureness and readiness
Breasts and strength
Stillness and legs
With all your supple
Spiritual flesh cast
In careful haphazard
Like the once lowing
Now silent oxen on
the stone altar by
Elijah for Elihu

There is my hesitation!
There is the pounding of
My heart.
I alone do not fit
Into the analogy
I am not God, my fire
Merely semi-divine
Only somewhat spirit

And you! You exceed
The oxen, your blood
Pours warmly beneath
Your sultry skin
And candles, melting
Away, blink and dance
At the sight of you
Flickering impatiently
Hardly able to bear
Their light's nuisance in
The presence of your own

My breath is hurried already
And my fingertips have not
Even known your face
Surely I do not fit?

But you are sheen in anticipation
Your lips swollen as if bitten
Eyes larger than moons, breasts
Rising, falling as sudden tides
Nipples echoing modestly
My own longing
And you are still

You are not chronologic, now.
Your repose is eternal
And defiant and yielding

Waiting. And I am only watching.

And how could I leave you there?
How does one leave Rembrandt's
Work admired on the museum walls,
leaving in awe and exhaustion?
Would they tear them down and touch
Them? Is it only the guards
Pacing like terror
That keeps them away?
Perhaps my breaths are my guards,
My yearning and humility
My wanting and temporalness.
And your eyes, deepening with
My every breath.
Have fires ever been so motionless?

Oh, you moved.
My eyes have never played
Tricks so cruel, so freeing.
You must have trickled back, then.
From eternity into eventual things

Just a stretch, a displacement of
The thin purple something you wear.
And the sudden gravity of
A light switch magnetism.

My recoiling is gone for
You are as I am. Blood and bone.
Nerve and hair, strong and raven.
And heart throbbing like
A drum, a burn, a direct
Unashamed pleasure still demanding
My body, waiting for
My recalcitrance to flee.

I am steady now and moving,
Lying down with you
Disrupting then assimilating into
The giving, the everything

© 2007 Jones Alexander