For you, seer of the line and circle, performing a new dance for a future undercurrent, painter poet, poet painter, whose words one only sees when not looking, caged prophetically by desire, a space marked by intrusion and collusion, waves wrought inside that special darling, sand and stones placed meticulously in each poem, each meditation box. Can you draw memory ringed round the sepia of a haiku’d, painted heart?
Bridged with voices, multiply me, tenor of unrequited light, articulating those spaces, evocative tongues dawning in a bird’s assembled nest, a very fine construction, bridged and arcing like crooked jaws grinding on the lonely cartography of an eager city start. My beloved bird caged in invisibly, not flying – the ghost of a ghost next to me in the empty seat + unpainted canvas rolls.
Beyond these capricious boundaries, for you, for me, the long wait, the self-seeking, the unmistakable grace. In the scent of your long-stemmed nouns, intersections limned and wrought, prayer, to you, living near the Bridge. Wheel of fortune, queen of cups, transverse the stunning dialectic, blooming wound, bent beneath the crook of knees dedicated to angelic viewing, preyed in the interstice with eyes that seek to listen.
How clear the inexplicable seems to me, loving loving, to love to be a rock. I wait for someone to read with me + to realize what I try to convey, you say, and you see the angel’s eyes just begin to glimmer, moving beyond John’s cage of noisy silence. Enough is enough is never enough of having enough she wrote, the compression of bricks, a blooming umbrella, a topography of tongues mingling down there where the lips slide and mechanizations shock. These galleries of thought, electrocutions not much fun, the answer to our questions. . . given in. . . spaceless time, or meetings on this earth.
In double-silent speech bubbles, I am [. . .] the dark sister. Words in an ecstasy of paint and blush, in the plural constraint of multitudes, have shaken away the sad sparrows that settled on [your] arms. Those birds are angels beyond the light, blinking in a void, true to a mystically inclined nature, and their feathers glean, vividly rising.
The lyric, the note, the not, the trace, the wish, the want, boxes, cages, soon let loose. We are going to fly. Through bridge and word and line and lust, we are going to fly, when we recognize the grace in our inward outward eye.
*all text in italics is Sekula or Schaeppi’s
Sonja Sekula – Grace in a cow’s EYE : a memoir : is available from SPD: http://www.spdbooks.org/Producte/9780982573150/sonja-sekula--grace-in-a-cows-eye--a-memoir.aspx