In Paradise, Gently Weeping #4
Watching you again this morning, still somewhere near dark
lazy and languid with your others across the square. Every
day I'm getting jailed with Paul and Silas, bounded
by stark affection. I'll pray to a rusted-out box of Marys long since
lost to you, worship only honey colored things. This, my dappled one,
is what hounds wait and listen for. I will wash you with warm water,
get stumpbucket full of mole, mezcal and con carne
before our hard won second act, slim chanced. Carve it
in the rocks out the parkway. I am a means of grace.
I know about your pastures full of red cattle, I know
how roasted bones cleave and the rooted surfaces of desire
gone dyslexic, spun round like so much yarn on a clear waxed floor.
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