what spirit holds the shape
of cat-gut pure as aubergine is ripe?
now the creed of heavens laughter
sings as bright as he of deaths domain.
through the lilyspeech of cantor in a rage
to the smitten tongue of years near final kiss
that burns as bright as midnight masks
the fossils of a dull and hostile tongue.
now comes the molten sadness of the eyes
with scent of souls three acres long
two days away from the waters scant disguise.
picking petals from the flowers of release
through reeds as tall as all who search beneath
the crowding wings of albatross unseen.
more imperial than silk,our sorrow grows
from acorn to the facet of a jewel
with flesh enough to pacify
the words of Lewes down-trodden.
spinning through the gold-dust of a star
marching with the windmills
with our faces to the moon
to where the scattered winds of darkness loom.
under cover of the hunger deep within
what side of truth we dare to swallow whole?
where points the stars more glorious than we?
we are all but all, but serpents
of our own uncertainty;