Urge and Urge and Urge,
Always the Procreant Urge of the World

Countless khandros navigate my seaward
hands. I reach for you. They dance

in me like carbonation, fermentation,
a holy coronation of vision. I see!

I am not sorry for my fleshy eyes,
their quantum mechanical missteps.

Blind to union, they are more than generous,
offering up the object of your wet face.

They know enough to close with pleasure,
savoring our swaying tête-à-tête.

True, there is no duad in this world.
Merge is the song stirred matter sings,

sang Walt, who taught me: gather
his water in your hands and wait for salt
.

Come morning, I wore my palms
upon my face, a mask to breathe and taste,

peered darkly into luminous depths.
There is no floor in you, my dear.

No use begging for harbor or land;
no fearing my own swollen surf, or yours.

Return, return. Our liquid bliss unfurls on granite
oaths and buoyed words, a winter hurricane.

I whisper, even earth is no real anchor.
Look! When towns and trees uproot,

sky inhabits roofless rooms, rearranges
what is wooden into moorless doors.

Blown open, we fly through.

2012
with thanks to Whitman for the title

2 Responses to “Urge and Urge and Urge,
Always the Procreant Urge of the World”

  1. Fey says:

    Best line twists inside me…
    There is no floor in you…….

  2. Padma Thornlyre says:

    I could say a lot, or I could say very little.

    Love this.

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