01-25-2022, 05:31 AM
Imbolc
Sun, already,
what more vital?
Trees already crowned
with canopies of stars,
a parasol floating in voids,
attached at the heart.
It was the son who spoke of bread
and forsakenness, in the land of fathers,
the Father's more.
That fishy plenty.
What leads to spring, death,
an entire Earth, compass, cross and rose.
Her nature is spiral.
Bread and loneliness are
the transparent sea of her womb, outside
is imagination home, nomadic,
every tissue a coarse and bloody script.
Send no more to sea or space,
the Sun of all universes
beats her light-heavy brow.
Below thought and above
the belly of her infinitude and ruin
are breasts, twin peaks which sweat
the setting suns.
Dawn's first light is not the god of her poetry,
nor do dark antlers regionalize her knighted woods.
No queen of space age.
Before, after nor in-between.
She is the Figure of herself,
and needs no form of worship.
Sun, already,
what more vital?
Trees already crowned
with canopies of stars,
a parasol floating in voids,
attached at the heart.
It was the son who spoke of bread
and forsakenness, in the land of fathers,
the Father's more.
That fishy plenty.
What leads to spring, death,
an entire Earth, compass, cross and rose.
Her nature is spiral.
Bread and loneliness are
the transparent sea of her womb, outside
is imagination home, nomadic,
every tissue a coarse and bloody script.
Send no more to sea or space,
the Sun of all universes
beats her light-heavy brow.
Below thought and above
the belly of her infinitude and ruin
are breasts, twin peaks which sweat
the setting suns.
Dawn's first light is not the god of her poetry,
nor do dark antlers regionalize her knighted woods.
No queen of space age.
Before, after nor in-between.
She is the Figure of herself,
and needs no form of worship.