golden

21st_century_poet_pablo_Saborio.jpg

 

The message
enters the room
without a body.

Pure cave
round as
echo
undulating with
transparency.

The air is crust
hanging from the walls
see that fruit ripe
tremendously heavy
about to fall,

the light
makes a moat
just around the edges
to leave an island
of shadow
in its center.

The message
thicker than voice
makes viscous flow
of experience

as it leaves
through amaranthine
twilight-pregnant
window.

The message
golden collides
with the gold
of the streetlamp.

Some leaves are
curved still
by the curb
as night enters
as a sort of sound
muffled but total.

The ear eager
lends its arm
like a root
to the column
of the message.

The hearer
sees only sound
the world’s substance
seeping like syrup
into this music.

The listener’s body
dances first as fire
then as air
finally as
hum.

The message
and the body
meet.

The body
and the sound.

The music
and the veins.

The room
now filled with water
drowns the message.

The body
nothing but song
remains as
world.

First Instance of the Void.

the_void
I was born
too dangerously
close to the silence.

My eye made
great effort
to shine above
the stillness.

It was violently
obvious that I could
not carry into
the melody
that peace removes
from the world
of instants
to the next
of eternal observation.

It did not take
much time
however
to wrap my body
with the thickest
and most ephemeral
clouds.

And then
I found the mirror
through which
the core of living
is reflected
like a perfect example
of deep –
truly profound
sleep.