Sensitive ears, unneeded greed, fastidious in our pacing;
still with furies, gawking at mudslides, defined by social justice. Early
waking—moist eyes tasted anguish, a soul ponders oxygen—trees planted, soil
tilled, sickle to lights, darkness to the universe; to have lips parted,
searching the aftermath, an imperceptible glow; kneeling in good spirits,
seeking closure without heaving, active like volcanoes;
blocks of dry sulfur, eating sin, wondering if ever
another soul as pure as the Paraclete. The preacher is nearby. He is kept at a
distance.
Most like listening—passing assessment, nuts, bolts,
allergies—opening up, happiness has a cost, as it pilfers our dreams; so dis-patient,
so uninflated, heavy lightness; the tandem of the energies, the expanse of the
cosmos, so filled with what can’t be defined; like inking chaos, irritants in
moons, the sun as fire.
