Angelic torso of a poem

I grew up in this town, my poetry was born between the hill and the river, it took its voice from the rain, and like the timber, it steeped itself in the forests.
~ Pablo Neruda

I am the lotus on the menu
of soft and moist poems
that flow and swirl around the fireplace
by the window breeze, in rapture

for doctrine-dreams docile to divinity
the boundaries that have none
and peace that is washed on the nape

of your neck, the nouns-cherished like
flower breath, fragrance at your bottom-lip
hope heard like a photobomb
peach lyrics of vocal charm of forever

friends, spirits, pleas of narrative
that cuts to the heart of all experience
festival of physical discovery

in a maze of mantras, verging on light
the language of folds that covets songs
lyrics that is not spelled, silence that is not
empty, leaves in motion like verbal-dance

faith, in an avalanche of anticipation
that’s poetry, clean and with soft foundations
firm at the summit of her storm-blooms

perpetual attributes of sheltered stanzas
sweet as the taste of a lady’s geography
whose distance is as quick as summer
and whose memory lingers like youth

delicious to the mind, that drinks symbols
the hemline of all dress, words, clothes, books
the last formal invitation of literature.