Evening in the World
As I lay me down to sleep in the still
house turned round
the sun by the moving
earth, I wonder if at
evening prayers the
Sufi mystic, Catholic,
Buddhist, Hindu, the Jihadist, do they all
pray to the same
god, and if that god has terrible eyes or soft,
loving brown ones?
Many sacraments are offered: lamb eating
green field grass,
scorpions sliding in glass-like
sand singed by the first
winds blown out on
the first day—women bending
at a clear pool
to wring out their long, wet
hair that has dried the feet of private
thoughts, the martyr at a
baked wall bloodied and bruised by
centuries’ surge, golden Buddha
listening to angel arias—and the sword, terrible
savage where blood is prayer within itself.
The long evening fingers, knitted
together like elastic bands of
cumulous clouds rolling by unseen—specters
spying the human cry for answers that
remains always in blue shadow, like smoke, like
mist—some jade jinn sitting on the
mantle never speaking. These kind seeking the
key to the riddle would plumb heaven’s
eyesockets, set ears tocking back and forth, put
tongue to bush and rock, gazelle and
gingko—looking always looking—finding reflected
permanently desires of the heart.
poetryrepairs #225 15,06:071
The moon glides, silvery swanlike crescent
through a sky beyond human cognition.
Beneath, there are birds in the clouds singing
Airplanes float, Japanese fireflies in a test
tube, between an unseen sun and a living
moon, where passengers look out into the
Heaven and earth suspended between thumb, index
finger, an old story stitched in air thrills the genetic
limbs of man, of bird, rock, tree.
Human pulsing hearts like a sunflower quasar thrust
into a bad science fiction story, like a pulsar emanating
magical radiation waves, like a gigantic gravity ridden black
hole sucking up all flowered light so that the human brain,
bipolar, forgets the sleepless halves, goes circuitous once again
around forgotten memories, instincts stirred in loins.
Hunger is there in a thousand million different manifestations:
thirst for the cicada, drinking the whale, living the dog:
runes, symbols, hieroglyphic story written in not only stone,
but also in the blind minddance of all stories that began in
caves and ended in movie lights.
poetryrepairs #225 15,06:071
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