11 September 2014

6

First Founder of My Line

When I can lie with my eyes wide awake, and know I am praying, I know what I’ll say:
this was a vertical pool of cold pavement in which I lay down; in which no one can stay
for long without losing all reason—all reason for knowing, or loving, or being alive.
If I can’t so dance beside you, a little alight, may I tender the light I mid-wive,
the one who, from so far inside me the glances of angels beheld us as stars—must remain,
though all the world lies down in ashes, and flood-waters sadly reject what was left of the grain
that might have withstood it. It wants me to tell you, you know I can’t use the world-telephone here,
the lines are all down and all wet, but the magic of knowing this woman means—signal reads clear.
Here’s what she voices us back: Call awaited; while signal comes sometimes, all sound is not lost.
This is just winter onsetting, and frost on the leaves, and—a strange morning fog of unfrost.
Those were my eyes that were fixed on the ceiling, and now they’re intent on the sea they still find
nearly everywhere we are engaged, their inspirer, and meaningful one who first brought them, designed.
Back of that magical meeting of memories, knowledges, whole fields of knowledge, vast lore
I will never know how to make use of, one moment reminds me of every love I’ve loved before.
Someone must question and someone must answer before it can ever find live flesh again,
but stars flow like mountains of geysers of ash just like—rain. From a grey forest sky. Soft, kind rain.