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A Cellar Door

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How much better would life be,
If this were a word we uttered



in a state of constancy.
It is a sort of thrilling terminology.
The sweet, warm climax of literary vision,

The way the vowels dance from note to note,
As if you could pluck one
From the word
And play it sweet;
Harpsichord.

It feels deep and permanent,
But is fleeting from the dry cement
Like water when the day is warm
Condensing on our heels
and lifting us toward heaven.

It drops and rolls
And feels like deep-dream’s delving chasm.
I wish I could just use the word
It is so strong.

orgasm



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