Sonnet IV: Meditation

[kaberett]

(Slightly gory.)

The blood beneath my skin that beats to burst
and joints that burning yearn apart from me
are muffled echoes of a greater thirst--
to encompass the world (such simple greed!)--
my breath, that dreams the flight of wheeling birds;
my bones' desire to be once more the sea.

And all these things--the wild and the absurd--
are still too small, too cautious and too tame.
Perhaps I'll never settle on the words
to give this feeling shape and weight and frame--
expansive sense of all my margins blurred--
of being, of existing without shame.

And threaded bright throughout the brilliant whole:
a quiet confidence; the seedling soul.

Comments

[hairyears]

There is, of course the perennial pun in the footnotes, on soul and sole.