|
Winter Child
Memory sought a place;
To comprehend;
To disentangle,
Those moth-masked
Dehydrated deities;
The Long Dead
With their sequined faces.
Their photogenisis
Of fotgotten astronomy
Illuminated riddles,
From our infancies.
We searched
The Winter Road,
Where we had parted.
Stray wolfish-breathers.
No pulse; a scent-trail
Of blood or geranium?
I stalked
Our preincarnate lair
Where we coiled;
In serene migration.
Where the glimmering shores
Of 2 biological
Heart-shapes
Re-minded
The Silent Forge
Of vaporous animal-chants.
And re-ignited
The fading flower-cells
In our wrists.
We resurrected
The Winter Child
Where he suffocated,
Stillborn Messiah;
Beneath dank pony-furs.
A pulse; no scent-trail
Of blood or geranium.
We accomplished
Our inherent nativity
When we heard silences.
|
|
