INVOCATION

As you were my lover,

let me wash words over

your clever, lewd, and unspent feet,

washing words over

the moth wing bruised bloom upon your mind, you

not yet too hurt, not yet inured to grace.

As covetous of space

as energy is mind made man again,

the breath wihin your mouth is light years of erotica

upon the pyres of words I burnt in fantasy.

Aeons stretched between:

my words were want, made green,

they fell down chasms cut

into a mountainous and deviled world,

chased as drunken images within the wine,

eluding the crude and thrusting verb

in an intricate and arduous unwinding

of the tensile shrouds that clothe my body tightly,

springing back to thought that binds between,

that prints my breast with tenderness or hard awakening

in patterned time which sought

the blind and listening blood, the cuneiform advent

of love,

defining unwary, nude dunes

which sleep in faith beneath the sky, or

immuring young queens in pyramids,

who fell to dust in lost, uncertain fumbling.

The final fluent groping is the mind unvictimized,

the dorsal meditation

of the lucent eye,

endowed by falling light or

fretted tears, like strings on lutes;

impaling thought upon the myth

or laying on of hands, in blessing.

© 2010 Charlotte Merrill Jensen