theparisreview:
Wherever I look you are islands
a constellation...
Wherever I look you are islands
a constellation of flowers breathing on the sea
deep-forested islands mountainous and fragrant
fires on a bright ocean
at the root one fire
all my life I have wanted to touch your ankle
running down to its shore
I beach myself on you
I listen
I see you among still leaves
regard of rock pool
by sun and moon and stars
island waterfalls and their echoes
are your voice your shoulders the whole of you standing
and you turn to me as though your feet were in mist
flowers birds same colors
as your breath
the flowers deliberately smell of you
and the birds make their feathers
not to fly but to
feel of you
Photography Credit Matthew Brandt
I had a philosophy prof, one of the most brilliant and worst-dressed men I’ve ever met. He once told me, “I don’t read poetry so I can talk about it at cocktail parties. I read it because it’s the last place where heightened language exists.”
Yes to this.
