Into the arms of Writing

Art by Agnes Cecile,

I draw these letters
Out from the silver silence
And pluck them from the golden void
They were given to me like,
Ice flowers, fire roses, spring water
And I can taste them like
Images from a painter
From Rome or Colombo
That’s the presence consumed
Of art and her rare birds
A flock of paradise traveling
Through time, beauty undressed
In her double-blossomed glory
In feasts of imagery and cliffhanging
Night, I could feel the morning
In her painting and all that
Transpired in feeling as the body burns
With life’s ironies, improbable spells
The river of your hands
Was a fever of a dream
The burgundy tongue
Of the flayed sun knew
I would write poetry
Like hot wine, spilled.