Oh If Caution Were Soft. And It's Naught But Whisper,,,,

Oh If Caution Were Soft.  And It's Naught But Whisper,,,,

                          ...the rain
is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
upon the glass and listen for reply 

               "What My Lips Have Kissed, And Where, And Why"
                Edna St. Vincent Millay

Consider the small incen-

diaries laid against the frame

of the heart, along the bone

cage wired with nerve

and muscle and tense

suspension.  Consider

the instinctively mixed

mortar fastening it all

and the precision of

every pause and ever after

detonating.  And those

limbless are carried off.

Those dead are buried.

Those shocked beyond.

Those rocking unnerved…

Don’t you want to touch

the undergrowth where once

she laid her feet so near

the touch-pin the case itself

sweats from the wait?

Don’t you want to diffuse

with the talent of a Casanova

every wire every fiber

and love her back to her-

self?  Don’t you want

to bridge the fissure

with your tongue, rappel

into that fissure-deep

crevasse to a solid fault-

bottom, where great plates

groan and ripple up

their purr?  And the cor-

dite of it, even years later,

on your lips?