The Beauty

"if you believe that there's a man on the moon"...

Somewhere in that suburban maze

Of apartment and stair

Upon, perhaps, an obscure but hopeful musical score

Written and subsequently perused for rhythm

Or sense or sequence sublime

Breathing near to

But not hampered by

Fibonacci, or "three blind mice".

Maybe in the height of a dream

You in a red shirt with

Challenge in your eyes

Upon some American couple's bed

Who have just popped out the door,

Are haunting the corridor and

May return at any moment

Careless of open doors and furtive lovers

In the haze of Christmas cheer.

More like in the quiet running of

Stream water over toes under shelter of shaded heat

Or in the smooth flourishing ever-shortening

Skip of a smooth feeling stone and

Its herald of splash-trajectory overshot

Before it sinks to the deeps.

The passion that overcomes me

When my child unselfconsciously and lackadaisically

Expresses a sentiment with that opening flower of honesty

That is purity?

A sweet, near-unbearable pain of heart.

In the memory of a ghost upon

A familiar street,

The poignant silence of a headstone

In a morning cemetery.

Also tonight's rainbow nimbused burgeoning moon,

The streetlight ballet of graceful insects

Reminiscent of swimming stars

In sacred stasis

Momentarily

There in the floating petaled wheels

Of flowers dropped from magnificent heights

Upon meniscused surface

Of deeper stiller

Pond of stream.

Briefly in the exposed bill, grey and

Indistinct of platypii and

Their curling dive flicking ripples

In leaving.

There where fate feels unforced and easy.

There where beauty is unafraid.

Where peace breathes and

Shy delights warily move.

Upon each turn of an impossible day

Where spare dreams have made their way

Subtly into reality and

Impertinent calamities

Haven't quite perturbed

The easy smile.