in my waking dreams, looking out--
rain sliding down the windows--
i see myself walking about on the lawn, pretending to be loved,
feeling the delicious wet midnight grass under foot...
my sleepy hands fumble with the sheets
and then search along the long wall of my mind
not knowing if i am sleepwalking while feigning hope
or walking while awake unconscious with despair
it may be all the same...
arriving at the threshold called mercy
i cannot reach the latch...
but your door, lord, is patient
no telling out brings peace
nor does pummeling the hardness inside
soothe the hurt
is all of this necessary?
to move me? to what?
truth? using words?
i could easier tat syllables into lace,
every scalloped edge rhyming with orange
not that all wordy shallows
are poor wading
but the well of silence
is rich and resonant
with watery glintings
and crashings of light
you do not know how to go
from this moment to the next
you cannot merely think it to
raise a foot or pick up a pen...
no, it is the will, the pulsing spirit
that impels to write, or propels to run,
or nudges and provokes a mountain
to move, and opens a door inside
in the small hours of quiet and disquiet
in our hollow rooms that make for wanting,
that ache for the echoing swells of bliss
we long for hands to reach inside, to rip out
the cold heavy blocks of darkness and pour in the sticky
warm love of angels, and the burning urgency of galaxies
the gift of lovefire is the spiritual birth material of the universe...
we are born new, not out of the clicks and gutturals of ancient tongues
but in the warm communion of lips telling out love with a kiss of peace.
we are crowned not with tongues of flame but the radiant nimbus of desire,
beholding the beloved in yielded communion of flesh and spirit
to know and be held in the very heart and hands of God.