Psyche’s columns

What is this insanity conjoined?

The verity made betwixt our minds and eyes and hearts and hands?

It is the substance of our silence and the flightiness of a step.

It is his outrage and my torrent weep.

It is a distillation in a day’s evenin’ end.

It is the hours by book and coffee-glass spent.

It is the stuff of lips alighting on his brow,

Handsome sprees of payment for his pensive liberty.

Lonesome groans birthed in wordy revelry.

It is between us suspended: oh, aeonian heavenly question.

One, I, insistent in His nature.

The o’er dwelling on nature’s own nimbus

(That Being being beyond man’s cursive start, in any land’s prescribed indite.)

His thoughts a gentle zephyr agitate through psyche’s columns.