hyporheic tendency

Some nights the river floods,
its brackish bank mixing
the mud with the first oceanic minerals,
the spiral of grit, galaxies at
the grindstone between the toes, I know
it's only passing through
like a hitchhiker, drunk for the night
or high on the fumes of incandescent
illuminating stares. the tunes
from our change is coming, come-in radio,
I can feel at home
traveling under stars like a
landlocked sailor, still rifted
by the smell of creosote in
misplaced breezes and
as naked as the sky, the explosions
making gaps in the walls, reeling at
how all the constellations
tell stories, reflected coincidences
in ascendants,
in concordant houses,
in scripture
in those discarded places
only keep me further from it,
from your saturating
silent singularity; if I can
make requests of you then
make your sleeping close-up,
make it near and settled,
make it like your waking eyed-gazing
arabesques; whose repeating forms
in ecological faunas I would dance
like tea lights on the walls of
mosques, hurricane lanterns
infinite patterns, infinite
worlds. You have millions of words
inside that write me out in tongues
they spell me into corners,
it's the way the poetry
casually caresses coming
from your mouth; my love
is phonetic, it comes out
just like it sounds.
I have shelters pitched into
your clearing, your palms
full of signs, warnings and wrappings,
sacred trappings, forks and
flags raised, how
many children you will make, whether you
kiss with your eyes open
or by the book,
how a body might communicate
above the tuft of grasses
ending, clinging, tumbling atlantic
over sandy beaches, sensual and
feeling full forced
in the salty wind
the way I feel strummed
by your breathing closer, all

the while the storms chase the air like
lovers chased by violins.

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[Ed Hart]

i get lost in the maze of your spell and don't want it to end...