A door opens – I’m showered – by bells
the room is dense with oranges
there is a whirl – a rumble – something tumbles
a rebel takes a dive
Are these – the Valleys? What space – is this?
The breath that crowds my pores?
Why this rage of veins? What new lane
have I just been induced to tread?
Particles swarm – an ocean quality
interrupts my sight & hearing
the argent heat makes my temples beat
my thoughts are arrayed in Feathers
Each layer of skin has a voice of its own
– when was I ever so acute?
Limbs are charged – the span enlarged
of sensibility & of vision
There are creatures here – they are alert
their nostrils are ablaze
their manes are tangled – they may not be wrangled
their harness hangs in shreds
Eyeballs roll & jawlines froth
they aspire a different yoke
they champ their bits – the bosom sifts
& draws the flock inside
Rhowanion – her name – she says it is so
mountains have wept in her hair
jungle blades part – the pavement starts
when she plays her orchid jig
The rush – of the Butterfly – the sting – of bees
the depths of the Tyrian coast
the Tongue of trees – the hand that sees
she knows them – they know her
Mutual influence – oscillates – descends
the room spins upon its axis
graticules drawn lose their tone
pendulous penchant flows
Words – don’t suffice – but language – is all!
The knowledge of the palm
– magnitude is gratitude
& the exposure to alien colour
What edifice can bear that blow?
That re-installment of the self?
Even as reason reels she kicks up her heels
– anything is possible
Space – pounds – it has veins of its own
each breath is a bubble of glass
I shall go with this sailor
I shall dance in her parlour
Rhowanion! There are planets nigh!
© 1995, 2010, 2018 Kirstin Sørensen