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The sound seduces senses, so the ear
gets lost in shape, caught up in curls like whorls
that echo the organ. Echoes beckon, are
their self-contained excuses, gleaming pearls
strung out across long lines, then with a clasp
they’re brought around, completing all the loops
as sonic mirrors. Figures in these—crisp,
lush, lucid—dance reflectively like tops
that, inward turning, skip-hop over facts.
This empty artifice depicts a fetch
of others: nothing felt but the effects
on me of her who, sight seen, makes me catch
my breath. The world, aside from her/myself,
is all but lost across a glossal gulf.
---L.
gets lost in shape, caught up in curls like whorls
that echo the organ. Echoes beckon, are
their self-contained excuses, gleaming pearls
strung out across long lines, then with a clasp
they’re brought around, completing all the loops
as sonic mirrors. Figures in these—crisp,
lush, lucid—dance reflectively like tops
that, inward turning, skip-hop over facts.
This empty artifice depicts a fetch
of others: nothing felt but the effects
on me of her who, sight seen, makes me catch
my breath. The world, aside from her/myself,
is all but lost across a glossal gulf.
—25–26 June 2002, later revisions
Initially written as a finger exercise in slant rhyme. It's had several titles, starting in first draft with "Critique". Not the only incarnation of the thought I've written, but so far the best expressed. The timing, written early in the first draft of "The Myrmidons," is not coincidental.---L.