The power of my tongue
I must not question
"Is it impotent?"
That is despair
Spiraled-down space of darkness
The question itself is indicative of impotence.
Is there some saint's tongue, a relic tongue
That still speaks mystery
From its gilt mount to the wondering pilgrim?
Let my tongue be that tongue
It can be (is) the same
And the blessing of aged grape ichor is in the veins
Drunk veins of my body component of fabric flowing dynamic Fabric of Every
And we are anointed because we think we are
(That cold philosopher perched on his stove told me that)
thus must become
Listen, and I-- part of you
Will tell you
As the sun sets here in the music of mating crickets
(listen to their song)
There is work we must do together
I was going to say without pain without riot
But I know that this cloth is painful
Bound too tight and rent
in places to the split mind and scientific eye.
Only a weaver's needle can mend this garment.
When your bright eye meets mine
accepting the terror and goodness of this convergence
The eye sees into the cloth:
The linen is whole. We put on the robe.
These thready tongues unfold
They speak in response to you to me
to the half-naked child running down the street
and the gray-bearded man walking his dog
They intimate love.