He who measures out the irregular power

He who measures out the irregular power
of syllables stretched across thin paper
can't help but fumble with confused answers.
The tired tree, the purple-opening flower,

the gentle breeze declaring quiet showers,

the aware clouds moving delicately over
the dust reveal the inscrutable keeper.
She whose eyes glint like coarse copper
trapped in a crude form shifts to temper
his artless body with a noble whisper.
The trees shake, the simple flowers shiver,
and the river embodies an unbeliever.
As a light stirs, his low faith may waver,
he may doubt the conviction of his lover,
or the justice of the ultimate lawgiver.

But beyond the trials, the toils, the fevers,

beyond the miserable abiding hangover

he finds within her gaze a light uncovered,

a person who will decisively deliver

the resolution of his shattered prayer.

The air itself, the pouring rain amongst

The air itself, the pouring rain amongst
the heavy branches, the low clouds parading
across an infinite sky, the laughing child,
the unassuming talk of thoughtless mothers;

The heaving earth, the thick mud whispering
under her feet, the glory she has suffered
beneath a senseless dome, the nonsense words,
the confused grammar of a translated verse;

These things that wash a spirit through my heart,
course through my body like a wandering river
roams the unknown lands toward the ocean;

Yet none inspire me like the delicate person
receiving all my hurt, who holds my sin
to give account before the terrible judge.

If I were ruler I'd get rid of maps

If I were ruler I'd get rid of maps,
ideas, notions, abstractions and thoughts
that compass the infinite dome of heaven,
or limit the kingdoms of poor hearts.

If I were ruler I'd get rid of words,
labels, names, identities and titles
that restrict the meaning of a person,
or define the vicissitudes of love.

I'd banish anything trying to confine
my self within images, my faithful god
who cannot be narrowed by any verse.

I would wander territories without
my own understanding, trusting in
the great vault of sky uninterpreted.

I'm waiting for the sun to rise between

I'm waiting for the sun to rise between
the crooked fingers of the southern oaks,
to rend the heavy clouds with a brilliant
light reflected on the bayou's surface.

I'm waiting for the moon to set between
the tall branches of the patient pines,
to marry the quiet crescent's dim white
with the tepid vibrations of the water.

I'm lingering in the undetermined place
between dusk and dawn, the mysterious
separation of the lover from his beloved.

Yet the two meet in a moment of time
beyond the trees in the garden, held fast
by a testament whispered in the leaves.