I’ve been shooting at stars
in lazy floods
all day in this Rapture,
hoping I strike a piece
of you so it will fall in diamond,
green Liberty frost, something I can chew on.
Your braided dream lilies were wound
with uranium dowsing rod bits crafted
this way by an alchemist in a deleted scene
from a silent noir. It is for this space ordained
you, this panel rifling, midnight’s confessional lit
in your belly button, and here, your kiss bitten
psychophage waiting for your heart’s Host
to fall with the flipper women gathered
beneath these spinning Roman columns,
hungry as dimming light bulbs
ringing one after another.
Comments
the experience
I have come to the conclusion that the joy of abstract poetry, that being a poem with no obvious theme, is about the "experience of reading it". Similar to our reaction to abstract painting. Words and images are charged, but the poem exists in its own universe. Like most of Wallace Stevens.
It is not my preferred poetry, but I respect the nice word play and images, as I do a good abstract painting with its colors and forms.
I
would agree. But the poem should still be memorable--like Wallace Stevens' poetry. Thank you.