October 15, 2012

poem 377 of a poem a day for 2012

the pine seed metamorphosis of Sybil behind glass

her state of being
a clock foundry
turning rendered thought
into matter and states between

death be an end
instead of another beginning
she mourned mooring herself
in the landscape of chaos
just once through
in the long count
of hands and mouths
feeding a thirst
in the dark
crawling toward the light

her belled jar tale
a whorl conscience
whirled gnarled into bark
into being born
reaching for its own
piece of the sky

into shadows
trailing Apollo’s ride
she finds
the crept
kept low
ghostly steps
of Prometheus’ theft

she pauses
and leans East
holding grains
smiled sighs
and exhaled codes
her time pinched
between her fingers
as she lets go
but remembers why
we burn with life

she prays
knees and palms down
the West wind says
I will catch your desires here
and scatter their carves
through what weaves
you thought to braid yourself to

here, where
the temple portico
opens, her eyes are closed
there is smoke rising
from smudge pots
they are tickling
the bottom boughs
of the pines
on these sharp hills
above the sea
each is thick with cones
and held secrets

she says
mine in each other
where each of you
never asks
for eternal life
but rather
for the simple grace
of an embrace
that might last
long enough
to scent yourselves
into each other’s rhythms
where your memory
is an inexact science
but your noses know
what smells
infinity calls
when you belong


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