The curved fingers of a bunch of bananas

The curved fingers of a bunch of bananas
fill up the brown bag that she is carrying
through the spring air. I hear the sultana
singing lullabies, biting into strawberries
and licking her lips. The blue jay has buried
its nest deep in the vines, a quiet beer
smell fills the room subtly. On the ferry
across the river she asked if she could steer
a vessel through the air like birds. So near
to my poor heart I hold her, the old drugs
and diagnoses fail us. I've seen the seer
meditate on the mountain, sit on the rugs
and become the first fruit. Through each part
of her body I become confused by art.

Wandering without the law, without truth

Wandering without the law, without truth,
without sense or grammar, without published
argument or doctrine. The wide, wet mouth
of heaven swallows planets, it establishes
their cycles within time. I haven't polished
the pearls or gems for her, I have but lied
to keep what I've desired. I don't relish
in the weakness of my self, I have sighed
and failed throughout love's trials. I die
to live more fully, pass the words over lips
and into the dim world. I have been tied
to the textile of the ancients, in her slip
she whispers prayers. I move my poor tongue
to be made perfect in weakness as I belong.

The first ripe fruit of the silent way

The first ripe fruit of the silent way
escapes expression by the tongues of fools,
philosophers and theologians. The wide day
cannot be distinguished from night, the schools
of stars swim in the heavens. Within woolen
garments she warms herself before my eyes
can make sense of the image. The poor tools
of poets and of mystics, the colorful dyes
and the unfolding fabrics. The tree tries
to grasp the sky, the leaves move left to right
then right to left. I see the blue bird fly
into its nest and sing without a thought
or argument. The ripe and orange Sunrise
reveals the land disclosing mysteries.

I'm listening for a vowel that will teach

I'm listening for a vowel that will teach
the mountains to be humble, teach the rain
to fall on tender plants quietly. To each
seed is given unfailing love, the plains
breathe with the swaying grasses in quatrains
and tercets deftly figured. I have viewed
the dance of branches as all that remains
of the first language. Words descend like dew,
like showers on new grass, the birds that flew
into the vines brought twigs. The new grass
was pulled up to the Sun, the light drew
the flowers to its hearth. I see the glass
move as a fluid slowly. O I have wanted
to be like abundant rain on tender plants!

I couldn't see, I couldn't really believe

I couldn't see, I couldn't really believe
how the color filled the air. The awful virtue
of a righteous god, the faithless love failing
us religiously. I couldn't see, I couldn't
whisper or recite your name without falling
over myself, stumbling on ego, mumbling
and stammering violently. The immeasurable
grace, the ascending spheres and faith alone
sustain me here. I live by faith, not sight;
and all that's seen reveals the mysteries
of various sects, the failures and the sins
of righteous men. Though our lips can only
stammer, we yet chant the high things of God
variously. I could but reasonably believe.

The law is made not for the righteous: break

The law is made not for the righteous: break
the bounds of language recklessly and rebel
against strictures of grammar! I can't speak
without faith, I can't rise above the level
of the ocean without god. The land funnels
the waters to the gulf, the ancient gods
hear prayers muddled in temples. I channel
the light of the Sun like a ruler's rod
glows with the heat of flames. In the odd
signature of time I'm assailed by the sin
of a falling hail, the failure of a period
and age that's closing. The luminaries spin
in nonsense patterns over my suffering body
while my heart longs for anything holy.

It was like the trees had opened their hands

After Spencer's 'Happy ye leaves! whenas those lily hands'

It was like the trees had opened their hands
for the breeze and clouds. The mysterious might
of weather rolled across the land in bands
that seemed of a purple hue to my poor sight
then faded into dim orange. The Sun's light
reveals the faith of flowers as I look
out past the bayou. I've muttered the infinite
so poorly, stammered through invented books
and praised inadequately. Love, sin has shook
my limbs as if they're branches in the twist
of storms. I dreamt an angel came and took
my hand, shouldered burdens, gave me bliss
I couldn't measure. The trees stand alone
and whisper with the mud about no one.