To Moshe, Asking Forgiveness

Dear M_ sh _

there were nights, most nights
milked and honeyed
I would run, headlong into sleep
knowing I would find you there:
waiting, resting, curling
into my next morning,
on that mountain, on that hill,
angels and guardians and
joshuas, softening like sand
under the footprint, the wet impression of
just one of Rumi's kisses;
the dawn is gray, coming
at one point or another and not
all colors can ever escape
fading forever; not even the blue
of your eyes, your vows and
pslams. Tonight,

after being so forgetful
and even dismissive, from the thumb
of creation balanced along the spine
and the skull pinching at my winged
scapulae, side to side, I have temples
on the inside of this looking glass,
this third eye opens and pours
wines made from the vines
a man had tended before
the Name and the Place came
begging him - build a boat:
the rains are coming.

I somehow see now, the shabbas
still sounds right and luminous,
when it slips off my tongue,
like the progroms that filtered out
my great-grandmother's blood;
can you be what you are not
without missing it all?
how my misplaced Hebrew
from right to left makes winding
jackknife inroads into small old
soulful anticipations, fortresses
and grippings, into the same om
namah shivaya, om shanti peace
peace like Eliot said in borrowed
wastelands; not so much a menial
papal decree, but like hearing Shiva
and Elephant-headed G-ds ripple
their presence in deeper marrows;
it's all really One anyways. yet I lean

and tilt
like a dancer twirling to the
inner music, and dervishes of gold
and ore tingling in time to the bells,
the teachings of light;
see: it's called the receiving,
and in this shape, anything can
be, golem or god, earth, man
or love. I could drink it all,
the wide birth and the river Jordan
forty plus seasonal generational
loins allotted to the sons of men.
I have never had a name before,
or a tribe. Forgive me.
We open the drapes and find
the smaller windows, thousands of
swallows and birds in cages,
like the Erl-King's brides,
the wild wood all green
in it's leafy garments, till fall comes
and garnets fall from between
your lips, cold as diamonds,
as early winter rains in July
evenings spark lights for my nomadic
heart, my heart straight aching for
One, which Am
I already am, busy being.

Reviews

[Ed Hart]

forgive me, do you mind if I rest here awhile...I'll just put my head on this pillow and coast slowly down the edge of this long night...ah, thank you...