To find the line
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To find the line
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What were the lines — curved, or otherwise;
rail-straight traversing, 'fore the break of dawn
the wild hillocks — 'neath dim-purpled skies
of mind, soft-melting down into the lawn
at morning's bugle-call to disappear?

Without a trace, a fervor vanishing:
a swell of faint, ecstatic posturing
to capture the elusive ravishing —
impossible, the beauty of a star
which overcomes the sensory, and slurring
words to blur the beauty that you are.

For halfway praise I'll settle, then, and say
a few coarse letters, maybe — to allay,
the roughness and indignity of day.

You are a diamond strand of humming pearl,
a resonance of light-before-the-world:
whose gentle spiral-twines must now unfurl
before into perdition I am hurled
by unrelenting passion that I hold
for you, of whom the barest glance is gold.

So all the colors of my facies mix;
purple, green and silver — amber, rose
to tempt me from a journey down the Styx
to which my spirit pulls with groans and lows;
that for another moment, ling'ring slow,
remaining with the Earth, I cannot go —
before I find the line of subtle art
that penetrates and rectifies my heart.