Desmond Kon Beici-Zhongbì

this year, love is a week and the wondering; love this winter less wintry than our last
       winter love is the blue of light-hewn eyes, the naval silence; love is the blue coat from
inis meáin, my baby-blue alpaca under, a crew sweater, your linen boxers in the wash;
blue jeans, two versions of blue, flung on a cantilever chair, your naked-curve back
your long legs around my waist; you are john millington synge, bent shadow in a stroll
on a summer's day, catching a ride out to sea with the island fishermen, his currach seat
       also cathaoir chair overlooking the atlantic, another far island that hides its secret lovers
       another outpost where we read our sermon on the plain as validation, only our beatitudes   
the lord's prayer and the ethical injunctions we throw into the wind; love are our letters
freedom arcs, thrown flames, kisses riding ablaze, blue as a boston breeze to south bend
       the love that says it like it is, a blue moon after sunset, a begging blue at century's end;
when casagemas shot out his right temple in a café, the café plunged into its blue period
       love, the blue as life decides we should not be together, we cannot ever have each other;
the beggars and drunks are painting the town a portrait-blue, our nightlife breton-blue
as the mark says no poet must use love, not even in a love poem; hear it say wait please
       our shy, quiet love will lift, small white square at the base of your throat; I slip it off
love bites blue your neck; you need to abandon your vows, dare a kierkegaard courage
       his leap of faith like mine; you'll leave, the fuller blue moment a relief, but blue is
this little I know of you and how much love is filled, the fuller sense still; love is you
blue frame at the door after a year – I call out your name and you come back to me—
blue as this gazing poem that stares at you to say I love you sola fide, so please stay
blue as these early evenings and what do I do with them without you here? blue is this
       honesty; this love is divine because I say it is, our last day we might not meet again





* The phrase sensus divinitatis translates as "sense of divinity", referring to the innate, intuitive perception of the divine that all people have, thereby forming the basis for all religion. The Latin sensus plenior ("fuller sense") is understood in biblical interpretation as the presence of meaning in scripture that lies beyond what was originally intended by the biblical writers and how this meaning emerges through the life and experience of readers. Presently rereading lots of Gordon Kaufman, Desmond has Hart Crane's "October-November" bookmarked with his garnet ring and a ribbon. The matching half of this promise ring, set with a tourmaline, is doing the same somewhere in New England. When he tires of society's penchant for literalism, Desmond finds solace in ceramics and the ambiguous - not the equivocal, nor the noncommital - ideas fleshed out in [this Urbanwire interview]. He is presently working on four bowls based on Eliot's Christian and Indic allusions in Four Quartets, its pivot being the particular line: "I sometimes wonder if that is what Krishna meant."