IN A METAPHYSICAL SWING

And here I am, sitting.

Minute after minute,

a wound in my pupils,

behind the dark

hues of the leaves,

in a mystagogic

contemplation of you.

In intercourse,

in a metaphysical swing,

soar oneself

into the universe of existence.

How I long to explain to you,

in what way,

in the contours

of a dark recess,

I learned

not to be afraid

of that which is vacuous,

trying to keep existence hanging,

on the stamen of

prosaic equilibriums.