And it’s best to begin
with that most obvious and undeniable
truth — like the protuberant nose
on which the lens-scratched glasses perch
that breaches the plane of every open door
an eighth step ahead of the sternum —
of the bitter logic that no poem
can transcend the finite and touch the devine,
so every poem is a tragic record of failure.
We’re already through the door.
Take off your glasses.
Feel the faint stirring of atmosphere
from the open window of desire.
Think about one particular kiss
which to describe it now would still make you blush.
Or that space between the flower
and the hovering bee. The motion of wings.
The way they, too, stir the air. Words