You know, sometimes poets are judged against their own work to a damaging degree.
If I were to read this and think it was a verse by someone else? Probably jump out of my skin and still be clinging to the ceiling right now.
Because it is written by you, I sit still, awed (as always), revisiting beloved lines and feeling them spread through me … but in the marveling hear the rumbles in the back of my head that say, "This is good, this is SO good, My god. … But she can write circles around this piece." … ~shaking head~
She was incredible in situations where light could pose a problem,
where exposure could maim a face, under a street lamp,
in a neighborhood well adjusted to the scent of yesterday’s promises.
She’d forgotten how to refuse the sips offered
and lifted her chest through the neck of her shirt.
See most people find a way to write that takes one voice and puts it into new terms, or gives the reader a different perspective to the idea. With you, it seems you create entirely new ideas, and then cut the words up and paste them back on in forms that I barely recognize as the language I speak.
DO you know that sensation? Reading and coming across a metaphor or conception that surprises you, that makes you stop and peer closer, letting the whole sink in until it covers you and you have to sit back, smile on your face, feeling the stirrings of savored delight and envy? Happens with you every time… as though your eyes are somehow separate from the rest of us, not seeing more, perhaps, but a leaking through of another dimension (if emotion were a physical thing, if vision were a whereness) covering what the rest of us perceive. Happens with Severn quite often as well (although hers are softer and hide themselves in-between craftings of language I know is mine), as though she shares our capacity for observation, but sees something else as well, something BEHIND.
Anyway, whenever I finish ANYthing you write I feel as if I have witnessed, understood more … have felt a sensitivity to another plane…one which I recognize as my own, though I cannot reach it (as though I am shielding, submerged, and blinded by the very thing I wish to see). Sort of like time; it is my dimension, it encompasses all I know of life, but it is perfectly elusive… to continue this analogy because I lack any other way to describe: when you write, you allow me to touch time.
Peace you, and hugs.