Easterhouse (Wyoming)
       

Sometimes within the natural, a little love is heard.
Called blind, neither touch nor voice
stood in the close         of history's gnashed flesh:
the golden hair of language, its shadow-verb

laid to rest in wheat-throat, music's compact fret.
I felt a fragrant dusk skimming the green
away, my love like a garment of bone, a winter-skin
held as neither instrument nor breath—

a mesh made new through cession, blue & naked.
I stormed God's body like a black thread.
Death went around
to touch each soul, little bride, spitaling night-fire.

What people buy in dreams
weakens me: burnt honey, sleeping

meat-machines, those sparrows / approached as bell
even as the forest stitches its last green candle.

Light my way now, brother-body.
I linger at the glass gate
in the shadow of God's vast flaming dare
where my children, each quelled debt, once played.

Tweet
Copyright © 2016 G. C. Waldrep All rights reserved
from Copper Nickel
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission