Olibanum

unto thee i

burn incense

the bowl crackles

upon the gloom arise purple pencils

 

fluent spires of fragrance

the bowl

seethes

a flutter of stars

 

a turbulence of forms

delightful with indefinable flowering,

the air is

deep with desirable flowers

 

i think

thou lovest incense

for in the ambiguous faint aspirings

the indolent frail ascensions,

 

of thy smile rises the immaculate

sorrow

of thy low

hair flutter the level litanies

 

unto thee i burn

incense, over the dim smoke

straining my lips are vague with

ecstasy my palpitating breasts inhale the

 

slow

supple

flower

of thy beauty, my heart discovers thee

 

unto

whom i

burn

olibanum

 

– e. e. cummings