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.

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