The Arch

In the beginning my words will arch
like an eyebrow or a wing. Then they
will offer a fevered commotion of atoms

to resolve back into harmony as I resist.
Come to me on a cloud of my own making.
Come to me, come to me, I can shroud

you in beckoning, I can bring you forward
with a word and you shall dance like a
doll on a spring. No time for sleeping.

No time for regretting thought or action.
My words flow like a slow ampoule. They
quicken to the brisk indicators you would

make of them. I subjugate or free them
for that is my role. I bring them cups of tea
and leave them in a warm bath filled with

the indices of unofficial clean. The soap
comes booming from its aperture where
in slick rest it seemed so quiet. Flannels

and towels stand-by for they have the
governance of day, and wistful night-time.
Words will pamper inside them. Then

with all the sounds of bathing done,
they rise from the stone room, gowned
and primed and waiting. The preening

was not for nothing. It was Venus rising
from the ocean of her device. It was
Mercury flowing and dividing amongst

itself. Both were feverish a while, but then
were well, and ready for the presentation
the eyebrow had for them. The wing now

floats its feather down. It has known the sun.
It has ridden across impossible waves to be
landed and ready for opposable making.

If I were to thieve words from all these
differing spaces it might have happened
just the same. Or it may have oriented

itself with the specifics of the surrounding
atmosphere. Dream on. It is a continuous
preparation. I might exclaim and exclaim

or simply put pen to paper. Whatever needs
to be done. Another expression is forming,
let me mirror and examine it and then, later

from my adjudicated rest, I shall let you know.