Golden-Wet Notations

whose face was it i felt
painting those voices into lakes,
infusing words into diluting solvent
to give them hearing,
putting mouths of glistening colors
against my water’s-edge ears?

when the saints swung at nights
from prayers hung like cones
of whispers, writhing tongues of bees
combed and bristling
about endings just beginning,
to tease earth from my bones and
blooden my lips with sleeping floods
of light and honey
as though tracing this temple
of fragile existence
into a melody of wax and sun,

whose face it was i felt
as the oscillating rhythm of arts
whose golden-wet notations
i am.

 

(c) J. Celan Smith