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Ah Rachel, too late I never see, fantasy luring me
What was it called beauty poised in a well's window
Where light fettered me? Some old dream or glee,
The quintessential memory wrapped still in shadow?
And the Celestial Day-maker with his silent offering
Sure a man will see between the dregs and the pure
Potion tendering, says nothing amidst my blundering.
I am to know that this Leah, the prophetic and sure
The gift that keeps healing history, balming the sore.

That is it! Beauty is only the clustered point of light;
We never see too well in it, and its darkness nothing
Tells or shows, difference here drops out of the sight.
Inside my dark heart always only hungers' murmuring,
This longing for self to become for vision a new strain
Of what is better than before. I thought Rachel to be
The perfect ground for my dim figure, a better domain
For decor. Missteps and missing lines make humanity
A perfect fit for her, and she a sweeter love in bitter
Mouth; the senses since childhood pursues the glitter.

 What is it called beauty? The impure sum of the rare?
The deeper lacking of the soul? The sad bewitched eye?
Take this to a common deeper dream, and scour there.
I heard it in the winds vanity, and its wild and futile sigh,
I saw it in raging tsunami, the sun's lung casting spots
Like scabs of flesh aflame, and light splintered like glass.
There too the fruiting spores blooming where on rots
Of cherished things, or our part immutable end of grass.
Rachel was the meteor that through each heart brightens
The death of things and what sin brimmed birth enlightens.

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