Water’s slick glass boulders, round
radiant glaring lights, surge forward
forward to dash the cliffs—
toss their atoms across the slate top
where I hide
behind a cold tree.
What movement caused you? What titan

moving, moving, moving through.

Sun-yellow winds wince my eyes,
flood my ears red—
God’s belly-deep groaning plead
from lake and trees’ lips;
I don’t fear, no, I tremble.

In the old, age-hardened snow I sing
in the quiet sunlight rustle
between collapsed pine shaped by the will of a bent ground
and the willful living boughs reaching—
“praise Him all creatures here below,”
a song for moving air to take.

Sunlight suddenly now on the heads
of so many pewed saints—
a pulse, a long-slow gold bloom,
fades with a passing cloud—

and again, a pulse
through, within, suffuse our dust plumes
lighting wreaths on tops of heads,
thoughts passing through holy.

What ancient burden moves,
purges bodies from us.

1 Comment

  1. Kyric Koning

    “Purges bodies from us.” I like it. It’s nice to throw off the body sometimes and revel in thought. Feeling too, I suppose, depending.


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