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 azures & purples – the eve that gurgles

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?

When the sparrow roars & the pavement soars

the cross-roads multiply

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!


Copyright © 1995 Kirstin Sørensen

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