Donna mi prega

A lady asks me what is love. Whose face,
or hers or his looks from a mirror
in a room without windows?
Love comes to be as action at a distance,
Is breath of filtered light
caught in diaphan of silk, falls
tangent to angles incident
weaves soul, surge of veins.
It is a felt resonance, I say, it whispers
with no language; moves between
two rooms, enfolded one within
the other. So Venus looks in her mirror.
The eyes of those who have known
watch with her eyes as she lies
in repose. Heart takes its seat
within a well of light.
In a chamber whose walls recede
as shadows, love attains
its brilliance, having
neither motion nor
still standing. Felt then, as face
formed from within, love bends
surface to frame; known without,
affect, gives to substance its weight.
Love builds her body as cells within
a cell, communicates through membranes,
pulse of corpuscles among folds,
inter-animate surge of sense and soul.
Tell her then, my book,
for so I have made you,
how, expressing desire,
the soul exists in its attributes.

Donald Wellman | Mudlark No. 34
Contents | Baroque Threads