PIANIST ALPINIST ON THE PEAK OF NOTHING
PIANIST ALPINIST ON THE PEAK OF NOTHING
The hibernation of evening drinks me in like a wordless song,
my gaze—I tell you!—unspools into the night like a hex drawn long,
a Tuesday without headache—foretold, and pure—a sigh,
bare-elbowed despair still glimmering against the open sky.
An onomatopoeia—a bell that drifts between the shadows,
the resurrection-day of yesterday's summer tumbles into hollows,
are you crueler, star, than my iron loneliness?
you burn inside my pupils—black sky bleeding into the abyss.
That fleeting knowing, the fragrance of a rustic debauchery,
her hermit breasts—silver hills inside a monastic reverie,
criminal magician, honest prestidigitator of the night—
caresses of thighs melting like wax in summer's burning light.
Your Himalaya—and above it a peak of nothing and cold,
pianist alpinist scaling your dream like trigonometry rolled,
fingers outstretched like a psalm toward the sacred abyss—
from your peak of nothing a bud of ecstasy blooms in bliss.
My gaze buries itself in infinity, psychedelic, slow,
the hibernation of evening wraps me in its own lament below,
on your peak of nothing—a silence warm as honey—
pianist of nothingness, alpinist of night and agony.
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