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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 |