Vulgar:
Indulgence, sarcasm, doubt and the dance,
The eternal whimpering,
a grind of flesh to floor where the heart
demands legislative action,
yet in sealing pacts, breaks.
Ideal:
Child god dancing by the sea,
a life rushes in with dolphins and kelp....
She holds his hand. She smells
of rose and broken orange skins.
There are visions in pastel no longer visions,
and Woman of the Dawn steps out
and says: “If you embrace the world
I’ll tell you you’re alive. You’re alive.”
Real:
Abstracts and images,
a hunger for the soul pushes through,
pushes to the southern sands and ocean.
Alone, feel the call of the tides.
The tide speaks:
“The heart alone in the wilds
is but a liar, exiles must end.”
And the cold red clay clamps
back upon my legs:
“Seek her here.” And so I do.
