11.2016
There are some who, all their lives, feel themselves more souls than the bodies which harbor them. She shares, and a secret world leaps into being between you: some treehouse made of ether, some medium by which, through indirection, she is known more directly. Here is this third thing, this bread, this wine, a sacrament. Here is this essay I found; here is a book. Take, eat, read. Listen to this song. Come, make this world together with me.
Is this not the business of gods, to make worlds? Should we leave it to them? A hallowed space where what is on its own all moss and rock and root may, together here, be transfigured, changed, elevated? Here is where matter changes. Here is transsubstantiation. Our bodies are real sacraments of our persons, our presence. And why should they not be?
She is champagne and gunpowder. Class with a bang. She is driven and focused, intelligent and deliberate, has poems sent to her inbox every morning and keeps the white tulips I bought her where she can see them.
She is a sun, but small, and white hot. Energy crammed too dense: blazing, raging, quiet. There she is! Fury. Silence. Gravity. Watch close.
There she is! Blazing, Searing into my psyche In a million ways I didn't know I wanted to be wanted And seen And known