Nimbus, by Michael Joyce, 2004
You want to see where she wants you to while she says what you
see. You want to say what she sees but it's all too easy breezy.
The sky enfolds us like desire. Someone has just come into the
room distracted by the lack of ceiling. We right ourselves and
greet her with a casual salute. She winks and imperceptibly
wiggles. Everyone seems to be ex waves or wrens or something
and thus jaunty for their ages. It is all mystery and lemons the way
the clouds are crowned. Red sails take warning. The swallow dips
her wings in the gilt water at the seam where the sky is soldered.
"Not soldiered, soldered," she laughs, delighted at how the eye
can fool you. "Not blood but silver," she goes on. Softly lapsing
breasts pillow grandchildren and ageless lovers she meets in the
supermarket near the spectacular floorwax. Still her lost elasticity
makes her sad. "It rhymes with titty," she giggles in a naughty
whisper. The ladies aspirate, delicate and susurrous. There is too
much talk of things and few words enough for what we see. We
are embarrassed by the persistence of eros and the constant
rush of wind outside the window. Nothing happens. Singing
children dance a perpetual slow circle upon Herr Altheim's famous
Hippocampus, their blue skirts like teacups or bellflowers.
Campanulaceae campanile, her lips moisten, shooshah shosha
we all fall now.