Listen: this world is the lunatic's sphere, Don't always agree it's real, Even with my feet upon it And the postman knowing my door My address is somewhere else.
"Sometimes I say to a poem, "I don't have the strength To wring out another drop Of the sun." And the poem will often Respond By climbing onto a barroom table: Then lifts its skirt, winks, Causing the whole sky to Fall."
There are So many positions of Love: Each curve on a branch, The thousand different ways Your eyes can embrace us, The infinite shapes your Mind can draw, The spring Orchestra of scents, The currents of light combusting Like passionate lips, The revolution of Existence's skirt Whose folds contain other worlds. Your every sigh that falls against His inconceivable Omnipresent Body.
Lovers Don't tell all of their Secrets. They might Count each other's moles That reside in the shy Regions, Then keep that tally strictly To themselves. God and I Have signe a contract To be even more intimate than That! Though a clause Mentions Something about not drawing detailed maps To all His beautiful Laughing Moles.
"Art is the conversation between lovers. Art offers an opening for the heart. True art makes the divine silence in the soul Break into applause. Art is, at last, the knowledge of Where we are standing - Where we are standing In this Wonderland When we rip off all our clothes And this blind man's patch, veil, That got tied across our brow. Art is the conversation between lovers. True art awakes the