Psalm of the Disarranged
Low at the ground, swiping the machete, then
the match, the low yellow water of fire eddying
through grey stalks, hissing white, then the stalks go black
They said it was right only in supplication
but they were mistaken; white smoke gathers
around my waist like a scarf; blue fire edges shin and knees
Voluptuaries of the burning lie in the field and smoulder, wicks
Prefer the cool shadow of acacia through clouded glass,
the cool and haughty toss of green leaves before the storm?
The relief of a cool hand: hold it smooth to my throat;
we are wondering at the silver light in which we shimmer
Fact is, we do not know
We do not know the fire that might as well be water—
It does not rid the plain of forms
but fills it, everywhere, with tall, tall trees of fire
Psalm: It Must Be the Medication
So the hip rises, oh so slightly, in its golden socket,
and music continues despite the dawn
The lion threw his head back and sang two notes like a veery
Everywhere doubling, two acid drops on sugar,
two boiling drops on ice, close your eyes
And memory sound as a wooden bucket, more sound
Why fuss with innuendo, when
gold and russet fruit lie across the forest floor?
Here, the loon's vocal cascade, absolute,
for the moment without remove, write, "I can't stop laughing"
(c) April Bernard. All rights reserved.
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