Delivery
A living poem, not yet written,
not yet visible, haunts the periphery
of the inner eye.
She is as light as a feather,
though she has a deep-set gravity,
her presence impels my mind toward her.
Which way to seek?
The poem that is not yet created
is a womb both empty and full,
its potential
demands subservience.
A dark machinery makes love,
to the unsubstantial,
and one single insight is born,
from that seed within a seed,
she nakedly comes,
now you must dress her.
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