Sunday, May 12, 2013

Cathedral walls stained crimson
from your already glass-sculpted hands
I admit to you a sowing
but gather not the totality of half-petals
or half-fruits
or half-stalks
to assemble into a single machination
of a pulsing beauty.

I can't bleed enough for you to notice
the sores on my palms.
Regular undulations,
shuffled to indifferent names
with indifferent scents
and different motions of intimacy.

But by the power vested in me,
by the substrates of anatomic molecules
bound and shook together
I now pronounce you
tired, alone, wasted,
and knotted together with one who you will weave yourself into, and trip over,
until eternity ceases,
until the skies shriek

I am knotted to bouncing matter,
glued to fleshy soil
molded bronze pulled from the gelatinous earth,
now worn on my wrist.

I have yet to increase a gracefulness
or poise, or floating confidence,
but the light creeps up upon those in darkness
the snails, the tiniest ones who drain themselves
into empty vases to conceal,
and therefore reveal dazzling light.

This is all worn down to fingernail pigments,
and eight silences arise
to bring mansions of not my desire.
Enter into clear rhythms
blushing wind when holiness is acknowledged. I sprouted in closeness
in Grand Rapids, walking to a sunbathed lighthouse
moving closest to a highest heaven
Safety and connective tissue.
Distance and coldness.
I'm not great with vagueness or sleight of hand.

See your greatest movements in the flesh of the night
air dense, and cold.