I think that poetry should stay 
awake all night drinking in dark cellars. - Thomas Merton

Look to the body for metaphor. 

Look to blood, use this word
in relation to dreams or flowers
while silver runs in veins which 
are usually streets or vines.

Breasts, male and female, 
are stars, have to do with 
a handful or feet to span them.

Abdomen, then, is a great 
Milky Way gathering, 
holding, expelling comets, 
carillon colons' humming. 

Spleens are bones
to pick teeth with, teeth 
which are, of course, 
sea horses or gravestones
bearing images of the Flagrant 
Heart to tame this spot 
of gypsum and flint, to charm 
where Violin's cut throat sings
itself awake, one black breast 
out of its fold slapping metal seas 
against dropping metal shores in  
Sidelight's shadow across this 
hand writing now, slap of waves 
mute in this stillness of knees.

So lend a darkness to gardens, 
ancient pattern of a breast, 
cloth lightly lifting, black on black. 

From Her chest reveal a slenderer throat 
that nods when she swallows, 
proclaims her peace.

The delicate will not pass away just yet.

Great Seamstress of Space

sew, please, 

with fingers of dew. 




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