Beauty of this or that,
of what’s touched, tasted, seen or heard,
the beauty of form
is still beauty of a minor kind.
Beauty of no-this, no-that,
beauty unconfined to form,
the beauty of clarion seeing,
beauty of being
unentangled with circumstance, event,
is a beauty subtle, unspeakable.
Intimation whispers it
when we love
and don’t know why,
so that what has weighed us down, wearied us
now flickers as a distant dream.
There is drunkenness, dizziness –
though nothing concrete to point to,
nothing to touch or measure.
A beloved we touch or wish to touch
cracks cathartic: the deeper the love,
the more she loses the particular form
and wears many forms, many silences –
a stone at one’s door, fruitflies flaming
desire about a glass of wine, wine itself,
beam dreaming through the window, glass’ smile,
evening opening its box
of necklaces, ancient jewels.
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