the questioning serpent breathes within the melody: fingers naked into the tongue of sun
kiss this page where we first looked for shelter, unknown word in the mist of the song. kiss the leaves falling from myself. today we are the tree and the garden and the song. I break the bread, nakedly, and the seeds find ground in the scriptures or flames or limbs, where again the dancers bring the beginning.
Poetry is the ground body where we confuse Becoming and Voice.
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Chaos returns into the seeds. I listen to doors and to solitudes, unfinished questioning before time begins.
Call me beyond the edge, where our lips should believe in foam. I love you, my dragon, touching Finisterra into the stream, bathing new eyes, new rays, new airs, where I love your crying out, your groping out, your spinning out. This is dawn returning to the mouth: Chaos alarm in the skin, in the book, or womb, maybe tears in the middle of the purple story, whenever the song implodes, here, from myself.
kiss this page where we first looked for shelter, unknown word in the mist of the song. kiss the leaves falling from myself. today we are the tree and the garden and the song. I break the bread, nakedly, and the seeds find ground in the scriptures or flames or limbs, where again the dancers bring the beginning.
Poetry is the ground body where we confuse Becoming and Voice.
Chaos returns into the seeds. I listen to doors and to solitudes, unfinished questioning before time begins.
Call me beyond the edge, where our lips should believe in foam. I love you, my dragon, touching Finisterra into the stream, bathing new eyes, new rays, new airs, where I love your crying out, your groping out, your spinning out. This is dawn returning to the mouth: Chaos alarm in the skin, in the book, or womb, maybe tears in the middle of the purple story, whenever the song implodes, here, from myself.
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