|The story of Esau,
his bowl of porridge -
a sacrifice of the moon for its reflection.
His Words were spires,
Bones that pierced a slanted sun a backwards blight a rumbling
A hundred buildings bowed
Another hundred lost at sea,
Clanking like anchors,
gallant pretenders to the throne
carving waves, ankles and wrists splayed
swirling dust into the ruins of the sky.
We compete with trees for meaning –
yesterday’s marooned in their crumpled silence,
murmuring moist hearty heady tales
heavy with the heat of living organisms
protagonists of the dune culture.
Winter marks the spot,
splits the tepid reverie of the river
the pivot upon which rotates this hallowed hearth.
Here is my hunger –
it’s dusk in my mind, Esau!
concentric circles of milk and moss,
Vibrant throat a cradle for your life
senses serve me little, less,
my heart the lead drum in
a pauper’s parade.
Eyes viscous postured poised
Staining the air near your face like clay,
I am identical to you not in color but in code
As in the way I watch you writhe,
perform for God.
Your mouth collects the silvering
The gleaming glass penumbra
and its intimations of truth
Belly tight with grain and grass
large with longing –
Your beauty a cage for the fever
nude mind like lightning across the sky
silk hiccupping brimming billowing
larva of the night
Tongue quivers like a landed arrow –
your spine, Esau!
Oh blessed beasts
enhance these wounds and heal them