In "Beautiful Signor,"
By Cyrus Cassells
All dreams of the soul
End in a beautiful man’s or woman’s body.
—Yeats, “The Phases of the Moon”
Whenever we wake,
still joined, enraptured—
at the window,
each clear night’s finish
the black pulse of dominoes
dropping to land;
whenever we embrace,
haunted, upwelling,
I know
a reunion is taking place—
Hear me when I say
our love’s not meant to be
an opiate;
helpmate,
you are the reachable mirror
that dares me to risk
the caravan back
to the apogee, the longed-for
arms of the Beloved—
Dusks of paperwhites,
dusks of jasmine,
intimate beyond belief
beautiful Signor
no dread of nakedness
beautiful Signor
my long ship,
my opulence,
my garland
beautiful Signor
extinguishing the beggar’s tin,
the wind of longing
beautiful Signor
laving the ruined country,
the heart wedded to war
beautiful Signor
the kiln-blaze
in my body,
the turning heaven
beautiful Signor
you cover me with pollen
beautiful Signor
into your sweet mouth—
This is the taproot:
against all strictures,
desecrations,
I’ll never renounce,
never relinquish
the first radiance, the first
moment you took my hand—
This is the endless wanderlust:
dervish,
yours is the April-upon-April love
that kept me spinning even beyond
your eventful arms
toward the unsurpassed:
the one vast claiming heart,
the glimmering,
the beautiful and revealed Signor.