06-20-2021, 11:13 PM
Hymn To Trust
Welcome is not the word, open already
moving. Engaging, presenting, investigating
as seasons turn one color.
Naturally four limbs, leap and grabbing for leaves
grown and ungrown. Established,
strange files, combining apartment and office,
desk and bed. And so many places.
Ripe situation as complete as
the works scattered in fragments
in pages and notes in and between the realm
of the room, all over
like so much Osiris;
I sometimes wish for a sister goddess,
warm and firm, with flowering hands,
to help form the holy egg
together again.
As though I was writing from tradition. Again, as though
separation is no death.
Fingers held so widely apart only
send warm shivers like keys to locks
too tight.
There is nothing in the middle. But there is something between.
The remnant of a stranger's bullet in your favorite tree
need not rearrange the scenery
so that even busy squirrel or skittish cat
need climb a desperate thing.
Open love is the only true sun,
and its grinding shadows and sheets
pay as much love as love gives out.
My books are like that. Too distant to be
rightly burned; but a sabbat and a low kiss
tell the spells in wandering gossip on satyred winds.
Some fine panic I'll light the moisture in the moss,
and wake as from a tent an hour past dawn:
The world awake.
The work not finished,
but getting there.
Welcome is not the word, open already
moving. Engaging, presenting, investigating
as seasons turn one color.
Naturally four limbs, leap and grabbing for leaves
grown and ungrown. Established,
strange files, combining apartment and office,
desk and bed. And so many places.
Ripe situation as complete as
the works scattered in fragments
in pages and notes in and between the realm
of the room, all over
like so much Osiris;
I sometimes wish for a sister goddess,
warm and firm, with flowering hands,
to help form the holy egg
together again.
As though I was writing from tradition. Again, as though
separation is no death.
Fingers held so widely apart only
send warm shivers like keys to locks
too tight.
There is nothing in the middle. But there is something between.
The remnant of a stranger's bullet in your favorite tree
need not rearrange the scenery
so that even busy squirrel or skittish cat
need climb a desperate thing.
Open love is the only true sun,
and its grinding shadows and sheets
pay as much love as love gives out.
My books are like that. Too distant to be
rightly burned; but a sabbat and a low kiss
tell the spells in wandering gossip on satyred winds.
Some fine panic I'll light the moisture in the moss,
and wake as from a tent an hour past dawn:
The world awake.
The work not finished,
but getting there.