Take it to its root—echoing on high, slow snails light
by torch. I needed You those waves in cadence those angelic voices in liturgy;
to soothe what became injurious, more profound in genealogy, more intense to
have Hildegard. Greater iniquity in knowing by refusal, in sinning with
purpose, in living with denial; Oh Father the soul is uneasy—much has come to
pass, thunder struck the trees; Oh Sacred Spirit, to dine in essence, bypassing
closure, each step is pushing forwardly. Pressed & stirred—wings flapping,
feathers wafting adrift—sure Passion to have lived, to have descended, if to
ascend in ascension; grounded souls, galloping with fierceness, furnished by
ghosts, heaving in the Great hope; reaching inside, loving inside, a product of
mistakes inside. Oh Precious Mother, to sit where loins bled, to have God
inside, kicking & making motion.
