907

Till Death—is narrow Loving—
The scantest Heart extant
Will hold you till your privilege
Of Finiteness—be spent—

But He whose loss procures you
Such Destitution that
Your Life too abject for itself
Thenceforward imitate—

Until—Resemblance perfect—
Yourself, for His pursuit
Delight of Nature—abdicate—
Exhibit Love—somewhat—

I recited some poems
    from old English masters
At a recent funeral
And the christian minister
    asked me afterward
If I have found
    Much poetry
        In the bible

Being rather familiar with the text
I stood there
    Silently confused
        And didn't get to respond
            Before he walked away
                grab handing the flock

I did not understand
Had he not read the psalms?
The writings of Solomon?
Or David?
The song from Mary?
Had he not read the first chapter
    of Genesis?
Had he not thought of Paul
    quoting pagan poets?
Did he know of the
    Hebrew rhyme
        in the song of songs?
The original language letters
    of the longest psalm, 119
Had he never meditated
    day and night
       on Jesus' intro
            to the sermon on the mount?

Perhaps I misunderstood
    his question
Or, perhaps, he misunderstood
    the whole entire thing

There's a dude
I talk to
Every time I buy a bottle of
Something good
    Chateauneuf du pape
    Topshelf Japanese whiskey
    Rare Spätburgunder
Not even Hemingway
    Or his characters
        Would dare open these alone
So I make arrangements
With the dude
And we drink slow
    While many others
        Circle around
            Come and go
And we drink it all
    With silent smiles
        While others tell tales
    
And there's a secret pact made
Each time
That we are the only ones
Tasting artist perfection

While all others
Seem to just taste
'Drink'

sitting in my crowded shop
line is near the door

the coffee, doing nothing for me
and I write the words,

“going slow, not always careful
fast isn't always that rash
there are breaths which are not wasted
when put to life before ash”

and

the meter and rhyme is
    ripped from emily dickinson
    ripped from her childhood choir’s rendition of amazing grace
    ripped from old anglo-saxson pubs
    ripped from chaucer’s friends
        roman soldiers
            or who the hell knows

but…

i'm not sure what those lines are echoing
because I’m so freakin' exhausted
wow, this week…
I didn't sleep well
and haven't slept well for some time
but who can sleep well at a time like this?
there is so much to learn
so much to live for
so many sunrises to take in

ya, that’s the truth

and maybe that’s what those lines are
as my thoughts begin catching up to my hand
and maybe others will see what I see
either way, I got a few words out
bring on the day

it remains superfluous
to dive straight into the deep
darkest corridors and tunnels
    to detect pure light

or is it?

for the curious shake fear off
for precisely such missions -

how else can it come
but by love and truth
powerful enough
to tear the universe's fabric
and break through?

Unknowing is birth of wisdom
Better to abstain from judge
Most inceptions are so certain
Then collapse after a nudge

Unknowing is birth of wisdom
Better to abstain from judge
Most inceptions are so certain
Then collapse after a nudge