The Way Light Plays Us Like An Aeolian Wind
by John Kendall Hawkins
You see it in the first light of her eyes,
landscapes opening to new persuasions,
the broad exchange of gases, and the cries
of lost voices, winds within winds, stations
along the outback tracks of memory
that lead through ghost towns, afterimages now
and here and filled with sight -- temporary
lodgings for gestures in a fresh cast Tao.
Timeless, she is the proverbial still point,
the prime atom around which all things move
and bond, the first algorithmic Eve joint
of new possibilities. She is love.
These still lives in galleries of our art
bring us together, and tell us apart.
