Why should I expose myself to you,
this comedy of fractures;
this masque of foundering joy?
When she smiles, her red hat askew, I see
the dimples bleeding upward on her face like diamonds;
is this image any more real than my kiss upon your lips?
If I were to walk away, vanish into the night,
disappear among the distant stars, would you still remember me;
would the flesh of my flesh, my flowing hair, become pure light?
Everyday the ritual begins anew, the endless circuit of our breviary,
our book of doubts and wanderings, the questions:
those possibilities wherein our days become spaces of living between thoughts.
I no longer seek the miracle of the sun,
but listen vividly to the desires of the moon;
my thoughts entwined in the mesh of reality, its frailty.
– Steven Craig Hickman ©2015 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.