sense of itself

 

you stare at me,

as if your questions

are waiting for a crosswalk sign,

as if I am standing in a card store aisle, 

where 'invitations-offered' cards are kept.

I am looking at you,

fast translating your life's evocatives,

yet stillborn denied, 

the tedium of your patience personified,

the chisel work from mirror time,

that presents as you now are,

a philosophy that seeks, 

rather than subsides,

as a wherewithal to go beyond 

what knowing has already offered.

you want texture, 

not landscape,

levity, 

not gravity's surmise.

you want out of you, 

beyond what know has already offered.

you want to ride the wave, 

before it became water,

to taste beyond what experience provides,

be the zest of aroma in its weightless state.

your stare is a dam break, 

just before you rift into the hydraulics of a smile.

you are a magic, 

before it ever thought of audience approval.

a grind, 

before primal had a language base.

you have a want for essence,

way before act-out becomes a necessity.

you don't want complete sentences 

as conversation.

you want me to talk to you,

as continuance of our conversation, 

from lifetimes ago.

if I take you outside of time,

all of your inquiries would depart.

and the bask of you,

would sense of itself, 

as realized . . .