What to do with this beauty, what to love of it—what almost to sigh and to sing and even groan, what beauty, this beauty all around and how every single day is sacred like drinking the very air, and what to smack of it, what to wonder, what to dear Lord truly you are manifest galore all around us and what to do with my hands, your hands, embarrassment of palms and fingers and how feeling greedy they are to touch and to hold and to grasp, oh, I am reaching out to you beast and flower and holy breast, my hands reaching out to the beautiful sun and the branches that hold so much and so much lofting as the wind passes through them, invisible clear lover and what to do, what to do maybe fall to my knees and thereby re-enact the gratitude of the universe and rife misspellings, on my knees to worship your navel slit-eyed and most sacred of stretch marks, oh, beautiful woman, what, what, what to do with this inner and ongoing hum and faint vibration and condition of praise, how to feign normalcy—Very well, thank you—and how do you do without Christopher Smarting on every street corner even post election 2016, what manifest panorama and ring-a-ling- a-ding-dong crazy and madcap beauty and Sophia Loren in every leaf and every bird, the sexual heat of a doorknob and sometimes I think I will die screaming crazed for the Beatles circa 1967 the year I was born not for Beatles per se but I a single groupie of a poem then this poem then this poem, oh, I am truly crazed in my tweed pants and wool scarf as the first frost descends in gentle forbearance and casements of ice, there is no school, no curriculum, no 10 commandments or blue book to tell us its value or what to do with this beauty, this paradise all around and we’re too busy to understand, too striving to ponder the intricacy of a snowflake so I will do nothing, nothing, nothing with it but stand with St. Francis in the garden and our dove-like hands lifted to the sky and the beauty, the sheer motherfucking beauty of it all tearing us asunder and what a way to die, teeming us all with beauty, and this the greatest destiny a person could ever have, sing about, dig with a shovel, run around, dance, foam slightly at the mouth, cast again and again in a cold, icy river as if his heart is in every tight loop and it is and it is, hoping to catch the moon or the stars or the lips of an angel to kiss me into smithereens.
Defenestration: to throw something out of a window.
my bones a bell and my flesh a bell, my tongue a vibrating rhythm all its carpet own
But I keep looking for the core world, a deeper place, that bright bell of sun. We’re not Presbyterian school girls, after all; we’re in the middle of a wake-up call.