Columns of Light:


They cannot see these calligraphic columns of light dappled with voices and hope. They cannot shiver at the feel of cracks flaking off with years of ruin and love, cannot grasp that erosion, that affair of these grounds, the light.

Leave me to write!

When will the face branded hot, hot religion crumble, the beards scorch off, the robes possess lightning and illuminate more than a flash of barren land thirsty for rain? When will prayer be a ritual of light, a dare of fire, a construct of Forces celebrated with wine and lovemaking, seashells and the comfort within ourselves, our birthright voices hissing . . . and responding?

Love . . . it was the moment. Do you understand?

Columns of Light. From intimate trenches of night, a temple emerges. Then you. Domes in our mouths, domes in our ribs separate the aura from the stone. Tracing skin with skin, a presence trembles like love’s religion in this naked garden. If only the moment and the moment alone would stay; if only the man and the man himself would remain a statue to be treasured and touched without the blinding light behind him shivering godlike and unreal—
I will celebrate when it fades, await to write pure calligraphy where flowers can bloom from his creases and

lightning can illuminate more than a flash of barren land thirsty for rain.

I am always alone in this place, but there is never a lonesome convulsion felt as echoes in an empty palace. I hear secrets and whispers that blow away the locks of hair around my ears. There are no iron gates. There is nothing to lock away. Breathe with me now as Autumn leaves swirl in gusts and tickle my chest, tricksters of darkness and light. Your shadowy fingers and defined pen. A journey of linkages, stones upon pathways to hop like children only to love the place. Alone. As long as we love light together, our love for each other will . . .

Fury, see with me. Walk with me. Now the fountain is flowing and nothing could be grander than a misty sunset caught in a web of colorful skyline. When rain hurries a spider to create, creation itself pours down and winks prisms in a silken gallery.

Adore me, preserve me,
for they cannot see this omnipresence, this duality of love, of light.

:A H


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