only the flesh can satisfy
those universal truths
that break on through entanglements
for unraveling life's complexities,
the coming together of synchronicities
this survival beneath the waves,
hair wet from resolute sharings,
pillows, sheets unmade from fated pairings,
water to earth, air to fire
these intimate visionary colors.
then what more can words pronounce?
visions are saviors to the tongue
ever since dawns became dusks,
and the Poet is only aware of the moment,
all else intellectual gaseous dada.
for only then a Poet’s promise becomes passion’s tool,
so here now, as particulars reflect shadows,
this presence of Platonic Dreams hovers,
kayak drifting down a late-summer stream
white newborn Moon, aware,
a tender Light imagined from some campfire many forests away.
smiling from her soul to the lapping waters beneath them.
boy waits silently, entranced, submitting in perfect surrender.
all movements eternal, reawakened for the first time.
as breasts exchanged for imagination (nothing can be forsaken),
vagina grows to where he lies.
a deep green light encircles, pulsates, and melts away.
barefoot boy swells, nearly unconscious now,
as the Poet Spirit blesses him.
as she too is illuminated by the same light.
she dreams of Aphrodite's swan nested in a cave,
her two wings beating a goatskin drum
then swooping and diving inside her lover’s rhythms
as perhaps eternities pass;
it is then she satisfied with his new voice:
consider this Poet Spirit’s Song:
The girl is not a vision. The girl will not become a woman.
The boy will not become a man. The boy is not a vision.