where do these angels seat us
when the coliseum of being fills
with eager faces?

do they put us away from others
as if floating in a different meaning,
elseswirling than toward night’s
decisive equalization?

the wine plays mischief at stars
while strings bend atop eyelids, twinkling
spirits, forgetting their anchors in eyes,
who twirl out toward other ghosts
like red emblems tossed into eddied streams

how they convene at the event,
these ghosts, these spirits,
to watch our bodies churn, we
who are thin with blended kisses
as if our movements as mists
could orchestrate the chanted weight
of their future and mystic music,

mystic hands of dark sky
reaching against a slowness
that intertwines wet limbs

shall our lipdance engulf these invisible minstrels
by its flaming breaths, its upheavals?
shall our shadow’s swayings, like wind-bewildered
trees, entrance their tensed attendance,
withstanding the blush of air
that skin slips into?

scented cheeks as well, sepals stolen
from soft spring nights, make room
for touch, more substance while
pure and venomous as moonlight,
breaks upon whitesand beaches
of the coliseum of being, and there, boats
pink with seathirsty tongues,
and time which tests out so full
suddenly rests,

goes on, goes on
in the tide of normal transgression

as they, the Elseones, weary
of watching the same old humanity,
turn their eyes to more interesting dreams,

dropping themselves now
in chairs of air, they recede
from the stadium of our show,
their pools of belief
now empty

for once unwatered by
ultimate concern


© J. Celan Smith