Pulses

Witches Finger

There is no substitute
for the stalagmite point
found at certain depths
certain temperatures
certain humidity
and chemistry.
I won’t be pierced
like that again.

Alembic

Mere moonshine.
Just the mention of juleps
of June in Jessamine
and the mill and the still
within
my thirsty karst topography
my pacifist pornography
is penetrated, primed,
and spins.
A matter or mouthful
of moonshine.
A trifle, a nothing
none.
These
of course
are lies.

Spelunkers
skin divers
certain of our
certainty
we plunged
in a fountain
of freefall.

In the cavern
the dripping
and the chatter of Chiroptera,
not dark,
nor light
nor deep.
The candle a simple prop
for our platonic renditions
against the wall
mingled shadows and
mud
from the seep.

Barefoot scaled the cathedral spire
the crumbling limestone promenade.
Reached out and soaked
our quivering fingers
in the simmering sounds
of summers made
mating
mixing
in gasps and galaxies
of gorgeous paradox
and perdition-
a Thiasus for sentience
for seeing eyes
katydids
heavy dew
and fireflies.

The wind lay intoxicated
on our backs, on our brows,
a Zephyr
with neither zeal or bliss
became an angel
or Dionysus,
the alembic
of our art
our altar
our instar
our kiss.

Drawing back the curtain
of the velvet Jessamine
fanning embers
with breath and motion
and before ignition of the oak
of the incense swirling smoke
of black tupelo, pine needles
and sweet grass
rose satyrs, maenads,
skin and stars
and in everything
there was nothing
but this.