Two dragonflies are coupled above this still pool--the red rusted male in front, its four wings blinding the light; the smaller, butterscotchy female anchored to his tail. Their flying oscillates between an uncertain stumbling that careens them into grass stalks, and sudden spurts of short-lived syncronicity in which they cover great distances.
I observe the lightness of their bodies. Sink back into my own.
They fertilize mid-flight: their bodies circled like the symbol of eternity,--a snake eating its tail. The male’s abdomen curls back to the female’s in a ballet of sexual instincts that would seem to need water for bouyancy, yet they singe the air with their red wheeling fire.
I do not need to invent a new language. I need to learn to use the one I have.
Now they skitter from safe harbor to safe harbor, touching down beneath the grassy piers of bent stalks. The back dragonfly’s whippering tail dimples the pond, dispatching fertilized eggs.
I have no eyes to see such things without putting them to words for you. As if everything was born for your ears’ resonance. The world rises into existence in your absence.
I want my four wings to float me above the waters of regret; I want the sunlight to be charged with this electricity;
in my eyes a hundred yous are dewed with sunlight