Something in the Way

O wild torrid consort, lurid breath of my beating breast,
Thou from whose unseen absence desire fled.
Lies cold, haunted like a ghost from our uncharted past.
I remember, afternoon sun bleeding gold, and hectic red,
Pushed and pulled, desire; refusal denied! O thou
Who chariotest to my dark wintry bed;
The winged perfection, the arrow, the blow.
Trumpet blast within its song a dirge, until
Trembling, motionless, I lie listening to
The clarion of the dreaming earth, and fill
Silent memory. Memorized perfection still.
Filled living, flesh and blood, smooth and frill:
Wild joyous which art moving everywhere;
Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh hear!



* In imitation of Shelley's “Ode to the West Wind.”