Of Bedlam and Prayers


The heart Is love in Bedlam
soft soled like a man singing
a word of  yahaak-ku
standing so close  that his
shoulders almost touch me
in prayer,
claims to be my love's clone.


But my love lies inside a hill
in the song of the Whip-poor-will
where my blood *** is running
in streams of ***** desire, and
never tires of singing.


River banks and fevered coffers
liquid gold and frozen sun
pumping in soft blue veins,
my blood is red as love it came
shining on spills of disarray.


A kiss away, only a kiss away
all those dark corners
of yours and mine gone.


In the long drawn space of his tomb,
in time, he asked for my death
pink in fragrant flox to cover
a good wide earth.


On my flowered knees I wept
cheek to the straining blade
pressed an ear to hear,
holding my breath,
glistening...listening
for his faint breath to cycle
into a heartbeat of spring.