That the body can conduct its choir
of heavy robes the concert of the mind
winter branches budding into praise
& the coda opens
in wait for the arms to drop.
Can the soul labor righteously?
If not, is the righteous
soul merely idle
ornament of resistance
until in the grasp
of his palm
as in the grape hyacinths
of its fruit
by a child’s restless wonder.
How do we talk
of it, or measure
Shore arched back
with the tide
(as if the rind
of our earth peeled.)
A shattered bulb.
How we praise
the body adorned
a form of gauze,
be a wound.
How wrongly we have mapped our journey.
The false north stars / you who
shouted chaos and the earth coiled
its tongue / As if somewhere a window
had shattered / the river
a stream of glass / cutting light,
bleeding with it, think moth /
( wings soft oars wading through
the plum pond of night ) / how sharp
their want at the lip of the bulb.
O gather eternity, its wax /and oils,
make a wick of this broken earth.