Damsel of interior light, face of cognizance, lap of straw and honey, my head laid with you- ten cords drawn between our closed eyes and the heart of the sun beating.
The warm of the day melting, the era culminating with replacement of our love’s moment, our tawdriness a moment elevated as the runner at his peak, full of dopamine, adrenaline and the muscle memory of readiness.

To nod off in the same peak dream released as by orgasm and holiday to pursue high calling among the charging horses of the steppe or deep communion with the fishes of the pool or reflection management in conversations two by two until we are a crowd.

A short step from crowd to army so stepping back to feeling on the home front I proclaim a break, a rupture a halting of the every day for a ritual opening on night.
A fairly faery preoccupation with the occult apothecary on paths between sorcery, the old English way and true alchemy mending the souls as from a lover with lie scars to be surgically removed from the heart, bled by leeches and returned shiny as an instrument for perception of the divine.

A telescope for the inner light also leading science to the microscope, an anatomy, the thermo-dynamics of gestation, digestion, metabolism.
At the table we look cross wise to our eyes, hands enfolded with a speechless longing.

As the brink might be enough, captured, endured forever and on the verge of her climax calling out and in the waves, the sensuous finely aligned by both eye and sentiment, fakes long since burned in the pyre.

To come back owl like with a message or score is how bad movies progress. We are left to the horns of a deeply personal dilemma. Quiver, quake, rest.

Fashion oneself a Bhikkhu singing in a cave, a festoon of flowers for a rose bowl parade.
The hymnal is tired in the dusty back tray of the pew, the red velvet kneeling a stretch for the infirmed and overweight. Half measures and continuation take their toll as the runner returns to her cubicle on Monday morning, the pastor goes for drinks after church, the word eludes, adroitly hidden behind surgical precision in the dull padded and filthy jammies of dementia and bias and holding to what no longer lives.

The crowd proposes a great fire. The monks mourn for the losses.
I had a bell and a bird, a well and a tree.

Fruit suns and sums of the most mysterious alacrity, somersaults and swan dives, gypsy truths among the heavy blankets of love making. A carnal and hungry animal fast as a fish, a glimmer reflecting deep sun in clear water, the very soul shined and buffed for high purpose
aligning low truth, earnest struggle and bliss.

A good place to end but we are beginners.

By Rolf Stavig (archive)