His heart, a pivot hinged
to the pith of earth,
of timeless sound,
of water,
of impermanence,

His mind, an ellipse deepened
in the èlan vital of sleep,
of nostalgic silence,
of blood,
of mystics,

Under the moon — driftwood in
its subtleties — there is another framework,
a rhythm of white.
A concatenate hole being worked
into the fabric of night —
into the fabric of the empyreal ether.

An ideal, innate beauty
under the rhythm of white —
or the coalition of color, as it ferments,
takes shape, becomes real —
is a forest cradling the early sky
leaving nothing before
or behind
but a clutch of ionized architecture eluding the
ethereal eye.

Bright in his own sense of shadows,
his conspicuity articulate despite
his resolve,
he is strung from the heights,
sputtering the sanguinated struggle
that piggy-backs reality.
A belly full of smoke and wine,
mis-aligned, saturnine; —
but there is flight in him yet.

A field of white and wheat
climbs from his limbs.
His wings pull at the bends of his feet,
from the arch of his spine,
while it spins in the winds of fire and time.
•  •  •
He catches his breath in the vaults of air,
and he flies.

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