By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 4/14/08

This April afternoon, the blue of the sky
Is like the body of a young woman drowned
In tatters of white cloud shredded by
Conflicting winds. Who was she? Daughter
To what direction, whose invisible eyes
Now stare into the trees and across the waters’
Deliriums with such beguiling agitation?
Like a dancer, with no will of her own,
She is slave to a transparent turbulence,
Her gestures expressive of something as deep as the breath,
Her white limbs tossing wantonly aloft,
Signaling a spouse of like agitation,
A young man drifting deep inside our longing,
Drowned also, but drowned in red and in
Cloisters too darkly intense for any description.
Young woman, young man, both wedded to emptiness,
Sharp winds that pierce the sky and pierce our lungs,
Towards what wild cloister do your bodies tend,
So violent with the frenzies of the spring?
How do these turbulent clouds and trees and waters
House nuptial chambers where your conflicts end,
Your agitated longings killed in calm.

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