Him, as she speaks

I am struck,

as she speaks, by the beauty

of the act.

Each idea is astoundingly astute

and sharply perceptive,

and the eloquence

of their conveyance

is marvellous

in and of itself.

My focus holds her worthy meaning some

yet soon my sense is lifted high above

the gist her words transmit, towards their sound,

and splendid music starts my soul to stir.

Her voice is beauty. Full and fluid rush

it’s ebb and flow, it’s rise and fall of pitch,

it’s choice delays —

which add suspense to the tune,

which are the shade to the light of her voice,

whose presence is needed to appreciate the speech from which they're carved —

and meaning's mere and left behind as soars

my raised attention borne on wings of song.

The music demands,

and of course receives,

graceful and sensuous dance.

At each select fermata, her lips

are held — slightly apart — poised

to lightly kiss and once again

cavort to the tune of her

words. They couple,

uncouple, and twist

into a captivating smile,

which has the effect of teasing

at that which it guards: Her tongue,

occasionally stroking air, only to abscond

itself, as a skittish faerie in the moonlight,

once more behind its softly joining

and enjoining ingress.

Each —

her meaning,

her music,

her dance

— passionately overshadows,

and at once succumbs

to the other two; as the ingenuity of her

observations renders all but her

meaning obsolete,

the rush and trip of sound

controls and beats away all sense and motion,

and the salacious dance of scarlet flesh

obliterates exactly that which it conceives.

In the midst of this trinity

of woven style and substance

my attention is frantically

changing, shifting, but still

motionless in awe. Is it any

wonder then that, in this impossible,

primordial duality of awareness,

there are born ideas

and feelings which — coming

at once from nothing as from impossibility

itself — give rise to humanity’s most

contradictory and impossible dimension

in a deep and unguarded corner of

my heart?