Disconcerted
Soulless is all humanity to me
To-night. My keenest longing is to be
Alone, alone with God’s grey earth that seems
Pulse of my pulse and consort of my dreams
~ Penseroso by Tekahionwake
Night is not a vast, but a bas relief,
or a tripping stone (productivity
stumbles). Mind artificially day-lit,
flick off lamp, news. Morning will appear soon,
chafed by color, ship-shape clatters, time split,
lasered into billionths. Pause. Bourgeoisie
evening mosaic; rub grouts of doubts.
Damp thunder, lawn chair rattles on concrete.
Consternation says come to bed with ye.
Soulless is all humanity to me.
Crave date with Lover Night, don’t fuss; modest
“right” clothes, words; bold, unconcerned, he fingers
past weave, excuse; unknits, unlocks verbal blocks,
insubstantial chatter of cloth and role
and names; he instructs: “see how hierarchy
of branch has dropped, leaves a natural hook?
Fabric? fabrications? Pride? Hang them.
Come into the palpable, silent, free.”
To-night. My keenest longing is to be
one who leaves certains (Counted Starlings
in sunned Cedar), recedes to black treeline,
proves “impenetrable forest” soft groaned,
guttural flesh. Stride dared gradients, steps
easy as sun’s sluice, unfettered, through fanned,
crisscrossed chaos of branches. As light beams
are senseless, I fall blind towards Night’s arms.
Muscles untwist, limp with no argument
to resist. Breathe, toes curled by dark stream.
Alone, alone with God’s grey earth that seems
to take me as his birthright, united
as a shadow into a shadow’s own, as if
I were the waited for one, Another
to complete his Eternal, cloud-eyes born
to complement the tang of star-gaps, more
than even Polaris was for. His gleam
is no lacquered bowl over bee. His arc’s
high, thick, barrel chest to which I cling. He’s
a black latex brushed on my skin, a cream,
Pulse of my pulse and consort of my dreams.
Form: glosa. A glosa takes 4 lines of a poem, spins them out into 4 stanzas of 10 lines, each ending with the inspiring line. Lines 6, 9 and 10 rhyme.