I: Recourse to Intuition
Why are reflections realer than what they reflect?
The answer lay in our first yesterday,
which only effaces the question,
a monad of daydreams that
explodes on impact.
The papier-mâché candelabra of your thoughts
is a playground of mirages
dancing across lattices of time.
We eclipse and mirror each other
in rivers that thrum echoing whispers,
whirling at us fragments of fantasias.
They wrote this verse in silence
according to rhythms of light mirroring
my breath/your presence, a place in itself.
I am the scintillating spark you saw there,
nestled in the shawl of your hair.
You were written knowingly in the air.
Simultaneously,
the world is a mirage
underpinned by the reality of dreams.
We overstep the threshold of day
into infinite maps of the starry reef,
dotting the lacustrine horizon. “The secret of what is
lies in the secret
of what isn't.”
(Piero Scaruffi)
II: Apophenia
Snow fireworks against the unheard cadence of
wind. Each touch bleeds
into the last, becoming windblown desert strands,
unwilting. You mask yourself in me, undressing
our last goodbyes in sync. Synchronized hush.
Then again, we are stranded in ourselves,
barely able to glimpse what we were, or
should have been, according to the veranda of
twilight.
My promise is an orb in
your iris easily hovering
around carcasses of
the cosmos. Enough of that,
let us fulfill what we were not
before we perished.
Again we rerouted through woods
snuggling the miraculous lake
made of snowstorms remembered—
carried by the lost sunbeam
that was climbing your words toward
the summit of futility. Where we are,
there is no why or what (which become the same),
only how.
And now becomes when, a question posed
by the hermaphrodite thickets who melt
into another life altogether. III: Tryst
Lumps of light adumbrate the place we
unmapped as we spoke, secretly,
nudging my brain toward an idea:
What we would be (and could [never] have been) is transparency.
Sometimes we live in silences that slide across
mountains, mottled ridges and undulating rivers,
skeleton and arteries of another time.
But we are not for too long, until
nonbeings (perhaps virtual versions of ourselves)
populate our sins with semblances of truth
(and debased, we [guided by whims] solve the Sphinx's
arcane question) in order to live again.
Sacrifice yourself to the clear dozing sky
which erects redemption from the stony mud,
where toads orchestrate another rendezvous.
Their concerto pregnant with emptiness
hurls the irenic fragrance of your warming skin against
me: sliding stars
guide the blizzard along our hands.
We must have forgotten how to love, wandering so far
to remember. “To see is to forget the name of the thing one sees”
(Paul Valery)
IV: Andromeda & Vice Versa
Being at the precipice of a shared epiphany is wonderful:
phosphorescent mandalas spume upward
from the valley of graveyards, home for ghosts.
They beckon us to finally forget one another,
so as to know ourselves at last.
Now is an idea realized
from constellations of mementos
to the impossibility of necessity,
and vice versa.
In order to grasp it, loud galaxies write blank patterns
on marbled ice and careful firs, foaming over
into pools which we must swim.
...Or crystallize
Inscrutable myths to spread on the surface,
momentarily fading into coherence.
I do not remember how I wanted to remember this...
Reversing the recourse to intuition,
we vanish in the apophenic tryst,
wherein we lived a thousand lives, each singing energies
(wavelengths of meaning) into the last;
only to be pummeled like a sandcastle by
multitudes of stilted monsters.
Recourse to numbers is a cruel religion,
which inscribes us with false destinies
carved into the corpses of profane priestesses.