Poetry?

This is going to be a weird one.  I haven’t written poetry in a long time, and it’s not directly relevant.  I don’t want to turn this into a LiveJournal—but I’ve got to put it somewhere for feedback, don’t I? So here we go:

Lewis said that seeing beauty isn’t enough.

that we long to pass into it, to let it soak

us deep down to our bones, to become

a part of it. and yet when it stares us in the face

we blink.

my chest aches with resonance. i’m just an echo

what you see here is only the sweat

shivering on my arms,

the dewdrops that reflect a thousand shattered images

a second story window, a vast expanse of

nordic tundra, a bayou.

i cave in, a creature of habit

crushed against my self

praying that just for a second, this time

i can put on the glory of the morning star.