Your body says Yes

to the clean,

well-lighted night,

an embrace of the wild.

You rise aflutter,

a spiral of pale blue

ribbons encircles

your hair, your waist,

your arms, your legs.

Above the red-black

earth, you wander

in exile, expelled

from your homeland,

cast into the incipient

perils of the self.


Rain peppers the ceramic

tiles of orange, green

and maroon like champagne

spilling from an emerald

magnum, bubbles pooling

in U-shaped cradles along

the rugged roof line.

Splatters smear

the ink on your papers,

leaving wells of black,

as magic words drain

across the page.

Too much water kills,

too many poems fill

the scrolls of ancient

sages meditating on

the mystery of the world:

why it exists instead

of the fire and flux that

leave nothing saturated

or sustained, nothing solid

or pure, only the fire-fed

kindling of night.


I say Yes to your body

as it floats overhead,

aimlessly advancing,

restlessly recovering

the iridescent glow

of stars, polished

with the brilliance

of novenas and novas,

of the nervous pacing

of God.

Beyond the reaches

of time, the future

homesteads the past,

laying down roots

of memory tangled

in threads of desire.

Footholds in the sheer

sides of buttes, lathered

in orange, deposits

of desert winds,

and the softest

clay. You sculpt

your figure into the cliff,

cover it in diaphanous

designs of grazing deer,

yearning for clarity,

meaning and rest.

The body knows only water

and blood, splashing

them on the red and black earth,

burbling in rivulets of Yes.

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