There is nothing
to order or arrange,
nothing to worry about.
No explanations required.
Dry logic and tortured rationale
can be set aside. At least for a little while.
You see, everything rhymes
in this letterless alphabet of sorcery,
this bottomless soup of jazz
and numinous symmetry of what-nots.
Once upon a time, words were magic
in the commonest slant of praises and deeds,
they were their own beings,
bearing the innate gifts of shape-shifting
and alchemical craft,
words were this, and these,
and paradise was the unsigned play-child
of language and silence.
It’s a matter of letting yourself
and growing brokenly intimate
with the air
that holds you
in rhymed and marvelous