The Dichotomy of My Dove

In the mind's eye,
As an imperfect measure,
As an imperfect judge.
 
    (Apparition of the twelve apostles
       their saintly kiss in Alaskan Blue,
       a nightmare or freak fantasy
       In the deep purples of electricity.)
 
Only understood backwards,
Only good upside down,
Believed only in reverse.
 
      (A ruby dimple pressed gently,
       caress carefully and fully
       the gossamer, painfully sketched
       and breathlessly scented scene.)
 
It's unlikely to be chance,
Equally so that it's not.
So where does it leave us?
 
      (Tree-speaking darlette of mine,
       In linen and holy spirit clad,
       A sonnet, a prayer I long to glut,
       the broken wings of a static dove.)
 
(Between every truth,
 and every thing spoken,
 are you and I and our clay bodies.)
 
       (Floating in a gorgeous city,
       A tangled and insatiable mess,
        like a raptured baptist,
        suckling on the tit of God.)