The moons that glitter against the ageless canticles crack our bones and thunder inside of us, echoing the sun. The engraved quiet has always been the bone of song to scholars asking themselves for their final thoughts of the day. The ashes that are shed out of the thunder, Mr. Hawkins, give common persons a fluorescent light on their beer palms in a white igloo where jets drop turtles on top of our blue reflections, drilling a way into our flaring core of planetarium bark. The wind is an igloo of fits. We must neighbor the stolen
For we have touched terrible universal waterfalls that mist. We held the scorched or parched flowers that burned our name into old neighborhoods and sainthoods all evening all summer with honied moods at Speaking Mirror Lake knowing its minor key like Villa-Lobos or a Black Forest no longer very living. It is that we have sinned and are crying in the hostile wind of that hostile place we see yearly. But there are better memories, as when I formed true verses under the German portraits or wandering through the radish gardens at Cranbrook where gardeners still trowel around flagstones.
My strawberry ancient watercolors drip under the black thunder, drip and bleed with the almonds, thorns and winesaps before the green daughters. Here is a Pard, ridden in these ancient watercolors while red wine flows from the harp with its bitter music of stoplight chemicals. Wherefore the peace flower of these poems, as young as art, blows with a witched, regal sound before the wild daughter deeply in her eye, like a hawk over a rouge storm of iridescent theory, those who whisper their dread of red Oxford whips. Observe the gemmed Pard painted there, coracle music of virgin almonds.
She is spilling the gold dust of dreams into a night too dark. We’re wandering through a forest of stars, looking for her until night breaks. She has turned into music from a very old-fashioned love song. We are ready for the light in her. Her light spills gold breezes into Sunday kisses. She is spilling gold dust of dreams into a night too dark. She is not found crying, like a girl crying in a cherry orchard. Her hands touch casks of old, dark, rich red wine–rare, French and rose-colored, poured in sparkling star-spangled summers.
O for a tongue of ballots to express my vote of you,
Sibyl, child of the reedy dawn,
Temperate angel of the oratory of light,
Cor anglais in a voting booth,
Kissing babies with your poems,
Collocation of all good votes,
Poll taken by the stars
Who stand elect,
Hearing your politic song.
The worlds heard your debate of fortune,
Knew your two points about the issue of creation:
That the young bud opening is not a pinched blossom,
That all democracies of the soul have come.
And that is your truth, little cor anglais,
Wind’s pitchpipe to capitols and cathedrals,