A cordial jelly

Come to the seas again,
where your luminous scales
of flashing fire dulled
but shortly, so shortly ago,
to the washing sands,
to the pearls all playing inside

your one-holed mother.
She dreams too long, in too
black a coma, thrashing then
set up agasp at the loss
of her limbs, her children.
From the voyage on

we shall incite a burnished boy
whose knees meet well his hands,
his hands his face, for darkly
yet is mankind’s race,
still on its first lungs,
forward marching to the wars

he plays with himself,
like a dollar alone, nothing to do
but push along and be pushed,
for it cannot inscribe
like an impassioned Capuchin
literature on the dewy treebark,

but sit it was meant to do,
& sit it does well. None of this
tidying the spoils of weather:
that wind is stealing you,
the banks shoring off your coats,
and when left there, you will look,

you will laugh in a happy bundle
of lazing people at that pile,
that soggy pile of toes, hair,
cured wigs, the cow’s hides
so purely stained into an animal
like a house of mud grown into a pueblo.

Your mother, your home, they talk,
they talk slowly, have taught me as much,
talk as the wind up here
in the drowning depthless lung
talks amid the mid-year storms.
May I lead you through? We

talk of you, and you,
warming the water, & the throne,
in the drifting home, like a home in a shoe?

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~ by Jeremy on May 21, 2010.

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