I'll read two more from Magritte Series
This is called The Revolution and it's about two people
trying to talk who are involved in different kinds
of revolution, both very seriously.
One a more public kind of political revolution and one
a more private or personal kind of revolution
of consciousness and an attempt to see
if those two can communicate.
The revolution.
Everything is so agreeable, tangential, so light of foot.
Tangerine all pungent with its leaves intact.
Still, revolution is your quietest intent.
It throbs through your kindness like a double bass
without amplification.
But you are persistent and grow a callus
of light from so often stroking the gut strings.
You hold its body next to yours in the air.
And when you play in the key of C,
molecules forget their lesser purpose
and turn swiftly, breathing the new physics.
I listen.
You invite me to care on a grand scale.
What must I leave behind me?
Like you, I give the finger to standing still.
I'm tactile.
Here are all my fingers to place inside yours.
Looked at loosely within any frame of reference,
I could seem predictable.
Don't be fooled.
Bumpy ovals of color thrill me tangentially.
I count on your intelligence with or without you
sitting there.
Still, I want more.
Perfection begins to hurt because love feels dangerous
and only one of us is you.
Only one of us is taking the other's temperature.
It might be me.
But that could be oversimplified since you often
choose not to tell.
What do you notice awake?
I notice I'm afraid to break in on the fluidity.
My dreams ask questions, the ones I've thought about
but can't speak.
Sleeping next to you counts for a lot.
Your shadow wrestles with mine.
The glow is Kirlian What you hide in the revolution pours
intimately through the dark.
Its effect can't be measured in the real world.
All controls break down.
The sheets convey your deepest sigh to my body.
You are not alarmed because we don't say a word.