The face is light and lightness, not fire, but
the back of the head is smoky and dark.
Dark and light intertwined make this man whole.
His blue shoulders are broad as the ocean,
rapturous, and deep as the night; roughly,
they bear the world, although he does not seem
to notice. What significance has weight
to which one is accustomed? Self sculpted
as a youth; life one chose — nothing worth note.
Those wary eager eyes explore one side
so intently, he may be blindsided
from the other. Still, that intensity
favors him. The drooping phallic nose breathes
in deeply, flares its nostrils, savors scent.
Lips barely parted, he is poised to seize
life or something living. Beware, be close.
Keep moving. Life is worth noticing — Grin,
laugh, pause, frown, cry, be seized by life,
seems to be the message he does not say.
He wears a victor’s wreath formed not of leaves
or laurels, but of thumbprints where others
have touched him. He does not even notice
he is wearing it. He does not see it;
to him it is just another hat which
warms his wrinkled brow. He sees only those
he touches, has touched, will. He does not know
he is a victor or leader. It is
we who follow him who see telltale signs.
Deep grooves spaced along the back of his neck,
where the grip of love has sunk its fingers
over and over again. They lead up
to the base of his skull, that odd open
blooming partly that of the English rose
full and wide (its stamens a delicate
hungry detail), partly that of whirlpools,
seas and stars, a galaxy frozen in
a distant time and thawing as we slow
to watch. Blue shift, red shift. Somewhere between
is the pale green of the new spring lighting
his face, the luminous spiraling
from this behind to that before. See now?
It is that opening into darkness
that draws us; that unwitting openness
to auras of the infinite others;
that silence shifting in sound’s round embrace;
that happy hearty hunger that does and
does not reach the preoccupied unaware eyes.