Sunday, May 22, 2005
Spilled
You decide:
i.
[this mongrel day]
reeling, how can I the heart to tell
you, this triple morn
staring down darkness
climbing miracle risen east
spilled among clouds
spilled among miles of longing
spilled in the torrent of western dreams.
I would a quiet heart, but mine isn’t —
lashing, weeping, ancient thunder
this mongrel day.
coffee face on white shirt
dreaming into black roses &
we are traveling the smell
of ocean a signal beyond dream
beyond aftertaste
this quiet morning of prayer
pews blue with desire
we are seven and we are
in a babe’s liquid mind
turned by willing annunciation
which of us has wings: answer.
ii.
[east spilled]
coffee face on white shirt
dreaming into black roses &
we are traveling the smell
of ocean a signal beyond dream
beyond aftertaste
this quiet morning of prayer
pews blue with desire
we are seven and we are
in a babe’s liquid mind
turned by willing annunciation
which of us has wings: answer
reeling, how can I the heart to tell
you, this triple morn
staring down darkness
climbing miracle risen east
spilled among clouds
spilled among miles of longing
spilled in the torrent of western dreams.
I would a quiet heart, but mine isn’t —
lashing, weeping, ancient thunder
this mongrel day.
