Jasmine’s Beautiful Thoughts Underneath the Willow

My titillations have no foot-notes And their memorials are the phrases Of idiosyncratic music. The love that will not be transported In an old, frizzled, flambeaued manner, But muses on its eccentricity, Is like a vivid apprehension Of bliss beyond the mutes of plaster, Or paper souvenirs of rapture, Of bliss submerged beneath appearance, In an interior ocean’s rocking Of long, capricious fugues and chorals.