Scriptor Press - The ElectroLounge

vi. Lovers
You crawl toward daylight, bearing an
instrument hardly yet played, a heart
barely sung. What pulls you back flares
& gnashes. You gnash back harder, become
a soft fist in heat, a butterfly spark
in a doorless room.
A beauty, first & last flower of
the world. A true note, plain & golden,
more than crawling toward sunshine,
flickering past wicked days, pulsating
creature, teeth in my flesh, fury in
my nights. A cry, full, empty, dawn’s
new life between us. Faith: beasts ranging
across a landscape, tribal noise
passing as survival, unto music.
No answers to blood’s tumult, nor
the thrashing question of kings
& preachers: How long?
A thousand years lain among stellar
rubble & strewn grace. Gourds of
language. Useless among the dead &
the yet. Stripes of fire conjure in
forests of sentience. Waiting.
Waiting. Samely crowds of jerk & color. Scriptures
of excrement lead armies fang-wild
& scholars airless & sure. Nothing.
Then morning a cry, full & empty,
a vow, tears, dawn’s magick grappled
& cast. Rain. Forgiveness. Blessing.
Something. What crosses what. Begun,
deepens. Crawling, now walking,
now you arrive, now we continue.
***
49
The Cenacle / 54 / April 2005