Cess-hekem-iya-meht

Warm wine and
the song of the glass is sweet
(nothing's sweeter than this song, honey)
Blue glass
and beneath my feet
(no road's the road for you but this:)
Bright light and
a dim serenade from the lips of one I adore
(you're all right, you're all right, you're all right)
You're all right and the glow's a candle
how do you get there?
There and back
again.

I praise the lips kissing the metallic rape of trees,
I praise
the ones who worship its opposite, and I praise
the syllable that explained my twenty years
serving hard time in shackles no one could see
and convening to convince the shadows
there is more out there than ink and paper.

I praise the release of the infinite
into the monotone of black and white
that embraces and defines the world of the indefinable grey.
It falls onto my face like autumn rain,
which is the smell of my soul
at summer's turning.

I am turning
half-way to the left, I am standing
half-way between two compass points and I
neglect to speak my own name in favor of redefining myself with another
as I did once, years ago.
The duchess on the parapet
is also the fool in the bandstand, the face in the crowd
that is unlike the others,
which are unlike each other
and all unlike the whole,
which is to say:

I have reached an answer to answers
and I may speak the name of royalty.

7
(hefhed)