duhpursuit

If we advance,
innocent, guiltless,
the informed
undertaking of rook
and queen,
the porcelain, poised
to face another
solid, brick, mortar, stone–
designs on the other,
transposed.

If we trade
red, for impulse
square, for sphere
black, for cream
and gesture, this way
the wicked
pass, or pour.

If the common squares,
the echoes, the daily
percolations, are left
to boil, to spill
unkempt, unmeasured,
the closed file
may open onto new
patterns, the laying down
of arms, the winged
flight of waxen players,
descending,
lunar revelations,
embracing the dark.

Time is all
it takes
to slay the maidens,
youth undo, or seal
the curious
in their vault,
self-made;
to lose, yourself, despite
the careful maneuver,
to the grand master–
lose in her
many-chambered thing,
the mind.

It’s only If,
the looming elsewhere,
the duplicitous
unknown, that calls out
undisclosed, and makes us
all a little lost, a little crazy–
cautious, although

It’s only If,
the hidden passages,
that lead us
down, or out.

A glance, a lure, ensnared and gladly
sinking in the disturbed sand, we cast off,
like bedclothes in a fitful sleep,
skins, feathers, wings, scales; we
send lines across the deep,
dissolved in a moment, all restraint
the edge, comfort
a distant promise, land.

Only now on the horizon,
where everything is thrown
and slowly gathering–
bottle tops, unsent letters,
the father, son, and the holy ghost,
our old address–taught threads
wind around the drifting, the sunken
debris, the sins you thought you’d save.
This is my body, given for you.
This is my blood, shed for you.

And those who make it their business to speak
of clouds, the cloistered, coddled
unions, have us hook and sinker;
dearly beloved, we are gathered here,
a tender cosset on this lovely afternoon
as we fling away regret and hold
each other’s hands, compelled if only for
a moment to pray.