May 25, 2011

the tree reasons and steaks the fire, descartes...
( sage reigns she rains, wait for the bristle,wait for the beep )

is it that blade
that may cut
to the umbilical,
winding round
sound lyrical praise
the dead raise parts
still divine inside
the air I fork
eating what I tine
what I tithe
what writhes
when soil meets
Sun and rain
and places to reach
in between the plain ,
insane winks
and blinks and odd beats
and measures, treasured bumps and breaths
weeded rested ready blessed,
fingers as forks do too
find all that my shadows
can bind to the endless beauty of time in its coil and unwind,
toothed to its molecular fine
its weave as leaves, flowers and fruit
swear to bear the paused awe of a child's eye as loot, so that I may come not to forget that ripening is as seductive and wet as curves in the clouds can get
remembering what I choose
I can let go of,
wingless and fluttered ,
muttered mattered
scattered smiles
too many miles worn
feet best to rest sometimes
and wait for the want
to inherit what the stars pour
bending with what has stilled,
filled with the heavy remains of all my seeds I keep out of sync...

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