i came up through the water
after a dip in the pond
and i felt it roll off my skin.
i felt the sun dance on my back
and his brothers, dark nimbus bulls,
shake and pat my shoulders with their moistened hooves.
i have done well with my gifts.
in the Good Book
i learned of spiritual gifts-
but they never once mentioned
the blessing
that is 'giving in'.

i believe that
there is a great mirror here laughing at me.
it's back is stuckfast to the wall with honey.
the birds couple up in unison with the shake of my
nervous hands.
even a lizard in texas,
with it's dry cracked lips against a fresh currant
knows
that i am in love.

with the weight if the,
well maybe 'wait',
of the tin trays upon my chest i can
feel my valves heal.
i can hear them heal.
a stiller beat, fit for the
diving of a pond
where i may take frog,
or snipe
if a city boy is around.
i woke up and when i looked upon the oak mats
i saw the colors of a water washed canvas cry out
like it was far from
the source of its wetness.
they peeled and spit
and curled and coughed
and a glowing ember came between my knees
and held high by the sun of masturbatory ancient dreams,
it grew to flame.
now i am no longer alone
and my peaceful anger i kept as a weeping
thrush,
a splint to lay my worry against,
a crutch i used for the broken
ankles of unhappiness,
it has melted and joined the ranks
and denizens of the forgotten ice station.
they sit in the ground,
astute,
with their ears pressed against clay-rich soil
carrying on in anxiety,
wishing and 'counting beads'
that i may change my prayer.
that this which i have lied about searching for shall end.
that love shall no longer awaken within me
and that the past will blossom.

i have poured salt and boiled vinegar on that
spoiled soil.
now is the time to dig into fresh earth.