Synesthesia, metaphoric transfer among the senses, was a resource of language long before the French symbolists announced they had discovered it. No doubt that their experiments with hashish and opium — almost all they had available — did facilitate their grasp of it. I know there is a lot of bad shit out there, but part of me applauds those who experiment with pharmceuticals instead of just ingesting them passively by prescription.
Rocks are the way to the river where wild
ducks swoop and swoon in relaxed profusion.
I can hear time shuttering closed to light,
the three remaining dimensions inverted
in shimmering drips along jalousie panes.
First there is rain. Then gales of radiant
green & gold blow in irridescent gusts by.
Crescents shine within glossy concave leaves.
No sound straggles out of spectral sequence.
Even drops off eaves & lashes patter
to a beat. Branches reach out to shake hands.
O, the radiant symmetry of the elms,
retinal veins through which suns stagger
on stilts, suturing folds of soil and sky.