After Aphex Twin
There is a lithe patient on the hospital bed:
steel bed of needle points, cold as an array of stars
withering in distant galaxies . . .
A sun is chiming
in syntony with the incarnadine and
beige glass sheets of ocean water . . .
The mares are bound by the cart:
all the sun fell into their hides, and faded in
the men’s paper skin, thinking deeply in the pit of
their beings; ethereal bodies in their clarity barely
effulge from their brows in unexpected moments
I have to meet you at the park, the lush and fountained
park past the locus of noon in the smaragd of early
evening – to share these curious orisons and parcels
with you, my friend, and the copse of yearling trees that
I keep watering in my secret pocket. My hope is that you
might elect me with the stars, tallest diamonds, highest
points in the heavens that breathe as they hear even
the tiniest sounds of our thoughts.
As you intuited in the past, I have little place on this plane.
I am no Jesus, no Jesuit, no friend of the masses.
I am only the net catching the signals of transient beauties.
I must be already there, beyond the slope, waving
a quiet hailstorm as you pause for an instant
in the green and blue world.