A LINE ABOUT TO EXPLODE INTO ROSES
A line about to explode into roses
a song about to explode into breaching whales
The horizon’s filled with them mingling
with fishing boats in moonlight
A thought from the heart about to explode
into a plain as far as the eye can see
lined with diminishing telephone poles
and vultures scavenging what they can
from our excessive detritus
A bowl about to explode into the
sea itself with all its serpents
A body about to explode in a lithe and
silvery essence writhing gracefully over the sky
An end about to explode into a
beginning and a beginning to zoom ahead
to an end wreathed in the roses of the
first line as well as leaping invisible beings
Everything on the verge of becoming either
something else nothing at all or most
deeply and simply what it is itself but
constantly on the verge nevertheless
And sleep about to explode into
avenues of direct instruction from the Unseen
And our hearts about to explode once and for all
into those quiet tabernacular receptacles capable
of hearing The Voice that brings peace to all
as well as transmitting it in words and
delectable silences
And those silences about to explode not into sound
but into more tangible and habitable silences
And those silences about to explode into
the diamond roadway to the Presence of God
And that Presence only by itself neither
about to or not about to do or be
anything but all-pervading and ever present
without cessation
eternal in active stillness
just it is
4/28/2008
(from The Fire Eater's Lunchbreak, in progress) |
For
me the province of poetry is a private ecstasy made public, and
the social role of the poet is to display moments of shared universal
epiphanies capable of healing our sense of mortal estrangement—from
ourselves, from each other, from our source, from our destiny, from
The Divine.
