the bloom

It's when memory does long work
on a happening that was to begin with
dazzled in a funneling of bemusement...

In those raw events, the roots of vision
meet and blend into the numinous soil.
The shy blossom of stricken time opens
for only a moment, as a brooding gift
of confusion and a burden of wonder.

Silken petals too thin to see with eyes
curl out from coiled space and spread
a fragrance of the unreal onto feeling.
And into the bloom of unknowing,
one is drawn, then falling, then...
spiraling through the fibers of a god.

The bloom is stemmed to hoary tubes.
It only opens when prayers twist back,
becoming howls of silent, innocent irony.
And the bloom opens for anyone who
is too far subtly gone for any asylum.
It opens sometimes when love's claws
rake the chambers of unquiet hearts.

Constance is a poet. I think I'll ask her
if she also waits on such dark blooming
of suspense in ripened moments when
words are pollen that we might capture.


* * *

Now!...the opening is opening.
And from the soft drunken colors,
layering like wings of desiring angels,
I see strange pieces of language
glowing in the nearing distance.

I scoop this unthought word and that.
I pull them in so I can humbly write
onto petals of the unknown bloom
my fragrances of love and despair.



Copyright © 2010, Tim Buck