The sequences of phonemes, many letters
scattered consequently. What gracious lord
is moving as the way, the truth, the word
that was in the beginning? I'm no better
in my stammering than the wild, unfettered
stutters of the birds and frogs. The sword
has pierced the grass, an harmonious chord
describes our relationship. It is wetter
in the low spot with the iris, syllables
litter the old scripture. The wide dome
of heaven seems a vault that is available
for eternal worship. The luminaries roam
the ecliptic, the fires burn as volatile
as the old theology hidden in this poem.
No comments:
Post a Comment