Isis

The crisis is over, Isis cries all along the Nile,
Time stops for the beating drum,
Time stops for the falling foot,
Time stops for the falling tear,
The mirror tips in the quartz temple organization.

She places perfect stillness in my longing, to keep our dialogue under the electric dance
of names, places, and things, to keep one of my daylight shadows missing and one nighttime memory forgiven.
With this allowance, freedom is sustained, and no one knows weather to laugh or cry in the unnamed silence of our reciprocity.

I remain half way solid in the choice to finally surrender,
my eyes don’t meet in the untamed graveyard statues.
I swing outside the river of flying windows with their schedules, plans and priorities, and bottom lines, who tell you how and when to hold your breath.
I listen to rhymes in the wind with tiny strings that catch the sirens smoldering star far out at sea, catch the emergency dream oozing, reborn unfolded to study deaths offering of appended reaching, silence without permanence, and a guess to refill the rhythmic universe,
processed into color in a dark room,
to let out enough emptiness and questions and pretend it is only mothersip parameters.
Isis was the only one who took the chance on the off hand exchange, to free up revelation,
to stuff the missing link, who had no bones, who had no home, She lives in totalities,
She lives mouth to mouth. She is queen of eggshell skipping, She is beyond bent lens dipping.
She is the sense of sovereignty within autonomous deliverance.
Her revolving doors dominate the landscape and nothing is lost in her secrets.
She is a universe to herself. I can always find a few places she likes to hang out, the fresh smell of lightning, I catch the flash of her smile, time stands still. She knows a thousand languages with a single word. Her skin is the morning dew in a pine forest, drifting perfection, a million drips without beginning or end, in ocean swirl and desert pool, shared with bird and beast. I dance along pulsing, pounding, beats of our timeless, rise of our wingless, fall of our spaceless, change
streaks boarderlessly the looking glass of my eye. I cross through and through, light houses in the sky, blend the pitches of eternal laughter, to faint to be, invisible root convergence, distillation of haunting midnight mist, somewhere, discreetly, everythings been said and done,
Hers is the road through which the seasons change, roll along slender fingers aloft,
at night, all her eyes and the moon, carefully wrought together in one horizon, a single nerve, a
single breath, passion in vision through an empty star hinged gate, all curves correspond to her softness, a beauty in another world, rainbows, silvery voices in my heart ring, she shows me water that moves in a wheel, a time when I was born, a door to dream time I sense in the wind that says
look, and when my eyes fail to see, she gives me tears to believe in, and I have to let them fall, all
the way down, to taste the beginning again, My squeaky tongue touches the dust of science, she reminds me, stars form, stars fall, go with, the light