Its
heaven in arms built in liquids as to notice winds. I
collapse
in such arms held through invisible as abstract
as
colors. Was it love this comfort to build a sky ever
for
flowing freely. Angels visit hell to sprinkle water
where
Mechtild sings the softest songbirds; and Gertrude
warns,
a herald of souls. I bubble deeply for living
Martyrs
to spin a serpent to rob a sting. Oh Elijah, a
rasp
to ache churning through a softer whisper. I love
it
as it falls to witness for grace a woman two score
aflame.
We chisel terror to flow her pen
nightly with his
fever.
I love it for rapture a tender silence to speak
radiation
where darkness sings. It was ever your tear
compelled
to perish alive unborn. Elisha wailed to grip a
tunic
to set to flame streaming through loss. What burns
this
river as treasured Niles a symbol in Ethiopia. Oh feel
it
simmer to stir alive soaring into a falcon; and dearest
Mary,
to capture life to give for life a wife of that Holy. We
mourn
in vain, for Its best that I go, to
send for comfort.
