Bring tea for the tillerman
Steak for the sun
Wine for the women who made the rain come
Seagulls sing your hearts away
cause while the sinners sin, the children play
Oh lord how they play and play
For that happy day, for that happy day
What is this panacea, this directed mission they hope for? How collapsed, this trident, crowning Eos over water; how came this dreaming noon, this lulled whisper rushing reeds and galeing of eyes blowing storm?
I call her calamity in ravens' cowl, hooded sphinx that she is, wallowing against my jamb, steering the unkeeled throttle, blushing from the heat of the pavement turned to stirring sand.
I can hear her whisper through the split-slits and gap, a slow prayer unto eternity, an exultation on to selves, tapping softly thrumming slick-smooth hands to steel. Glaring lights red on the rain.
Come trim the shoulders, letting the slender slip fall gracefully as we cross the sky, playing endlessly in the lamplit gloaming fueled by the sparks bursting off that graveled spin along us.
Capsized, she and I. Tangled in the throngs of echoes rimming wide of the wind, strung as mosaics beaming in cruciated songs whorling through the singing bowls.
Just give me one more stretch, one more run, a million small forevers, an infinite number of hells, just one more lick of concrete, a small scrape thatched with blood. One more.
One more silent cry of Joy.
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