Monday, September 21, 2009

The Gift of Tongues

The Gift of Tongues

Where were the mothers
the day that I found art in her lap,
a universe
of casualties so lovely, so vast?
Remember the cold clouds around her waist,
the angel moments,
calling tongues wrapped around tongues
the trumpets of the devil.
Remember the blue
the vast, unstopping blue
of learning
and find for yourself
the soil of language,
and don’t forget the time before when I was
a sky child,
drinking dust
before the time of art.

Where were the fathers the
day that I found the touches
of flesh on flesh on fabric on flesh
and knew the truth
that was mantled in hedonism?
What ramparts were climbed
that were just beds
to see the heat heat hot
pulse from me, and I ask,
what show of god
glimmered before the peacock
sky to tell the little planets
that they were once only
they were once only
they were once with out
songs and colors?

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