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, crooked mastadons 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, panting, robust 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 my neck 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 largesse, love, larva of the night Tongue quivers like a landed arrow – Your spoon your spine, Esau! Oh blessed beasts enhance these wounds and heal them All at once |