Joy is a clothing,
velvet-pouch from head to toe,
sliky ruffle, shoe-tip,
a moth’s wing covers it,
the worm of the night chews it, tears it,
it’ll be torn into nothing, if I don’t find it.
It’s back is wonder-stole,
it’s front is strumming chickadee,
it’s string is tinckler bell,
it’s belt is a jingling hush-screw,
it’s side is a slippery oak-leaf,
it’s tuft is a dangling crickett-antenna,
it’s patch is a kiss-lace,
it’s button is a striped cherry.
Zap! I’ve put it on me:
the sari is a dripping pearl-drop,
the whole thing is all a white fog!
Joy is a pollen,
it has no beginning or end, it’s circular,
one cannot get a hold on it’s sour cherry stem,
it’s rotating on, waiting to be broken,
in a white, tubby globe.
I twirl the marble, it’s mine!
And if I would dare to… I dare!
Look, it’s cracking, it’s broken,
the storm lashes out,
noone can lock it back again!
Nettle-stream, shrewd shrub
gurgles on a sodden lavender-vapour.
Either I let it felicitate the whole world,
or I suck the spicy fragrance into my lungs…
Zapp! A moment, and it’s swirling inside me,
the whole thing is all a white smoke!