Hierophany

There is no reality,
     there is only life subject to circumstance.
Reality is how things should be—
     it is never how they will be.
I danced once with reality.
     I put my hands at her waist
          and buried my nose beneath her hair.
               Lights flashed,
                    the jazzband screamed.
She said, It’s circumstance that’s brought us here.
     But she wore circumstance like a wreath upon her head.
          I wished it a tiara.
I raised high her hand;
     spun her away;
          closed my eyes;
               imagined a night with her,
                    bejewelling her tiara,
                         lapping at her jadestones,
                              shining tight her lapis lazuli.
Too bad, when I opened my eyes,
     to find her gone;
          the dancefloor emptied;
               the jazzband packing up.
Circumstance, the trumpet player,
     had taken her home instead.
He bragged to me about it the next day.
     I said, Your playing’s flat;
          and, She’s more real to me
               than ever could she be to you.

This entry posted by J Rand : 07:11