We shell time from the nuts and teach it to walk:
time turns back into its shell.
In the mirror is Sunday,
in dream goes sleeping,
the mouth speaks true.
My eyes goes down to my lover's loins:
we gaze at each other,
we say dark things,
we love one another like poppy and memory,
we slumber like wine in the seashells,
like the sea in the moon's blood-beam.
We stand at the window embracing, they watch from the street:
It's time people knew!
It's time the stone consented to bloom,
a heart beat for unrest.
It's time it came time.
It is time.
Near we are, Lord,
near and graspable.
Grasped, Lord, already,
clawed into one another, as if
the body of each of us were
your body, Lord.
To the trough we went, Lord.
It was blood, it was
what you shed, Lord.
It glistened.
Pray, Lord.
We are near.
Death is a master from Germany.
“With wine and being lost, with
less and less of both:
I rode through the snow, do you read me
I rode God far--I rode God
near, he sang,
it was
our last ride over
the hurdled humans.
They cowered when
they heard us
overhead, they
wrote, they
lied our neighing
into one of their
image-ridden languages.”
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