This in our image (this is our image?)

This is a song to you
like the tune streaming through
earphones, like your body moving silently
as a windblown blade. I write this to you
with my eyes closed and your eyes
closed

Like this bus like this train like this
bench
in imagist station of faces, petals
flowering dark faces
closed like the twine of images in holy metaphory
for this mystery, yourself an image
and myself falling petals
caught and flung from this black aspergillum
bough of poetry

But all the natural world will unfold
like the wind
moving silently
as your head nodding
as your lips around your song
blowing wordless notes--

not this note, wrangled
sweet and strange as saints'
faces in icon wrought,
but before and through the thought.