Love Letter 16. Ring of Fifths
Circle the sky like a buzzard, arc
great suns and potholes with sharpening
dives. I found you, my fiery wound,
all nerve-purple and lava ambrosia,
ecstatic blood-fugue among the free
bugs. A orb weaver’s mythic cobweb
fixes us dry in two cocoons, our bailiff
gaunt in his celestial cell, flinging
doughy first light on the shed,
amoebas springing from ash, abracadabra.
Empty are the dancehall, the synagogue.
Blessings radiating from the bimah’s womb
flay their crystal sperm tails. Proof
admits itself into mitochondria
eleven dimensions away from a black hole.
Better to sweeten my mouth like a syllabub,
fanatical priestess of the tongue, stiff
cantor. In your foot sole’s systemic
glory, crowned with toes, my being
dumbstruck I accept as one must accept an end.
Eat, drink, sing, spin in circles! It’s me,
bonsai in the glass! I’m lost, won’t snub
feathered things, won’t reject the belief
cymbals cling to as their havoc
gadflies the cynical. Doubt is a bitter gag
disfiguring the gaping mouth of a dryad.
Another Chicago Magazine 