Meadowwalk

Descending makes the sky.

Gray, blue,
Layers of amber hues,
And blood tones.
The pupil seldom perceives
What the heart-master knows:
That we are lost
In this watercolour of souls.

We move about them in this
Corporeal framework, part
Of the cinematic-picture,

But do we ever earn our part?

Everyone is a star.

I’m the one who, if you stare, kills sight —
The frustrated lover, murdering
What I cannot bring back to me,
But then,

So are you.

When we sleep, the camera-eye
Is off us and focuses on our souls,
Who act out ascension. They do it
So convincingly.

They are naturals.

Is there anyone here
To sign them up
On this eternal contract?

When you wake, do you hear the background sound,
A symphony soft in your heart?
And as you rush to your steed on wheels, heavy
-plated with armor,
Invented to project carnality,
Do you glance at the sky
And feel what I see —
The descension?

Why are they here?
To give us a script of rebellion
Or rescue?
To tell us a story of home?

Off book,
I recite to you a soliloquy,
Then you recite one to me.
We never seem to get it right:
Even after our sensual songs,
I feel atmospheric unrest.

We walk through a meadow,
Not speaking now;
It’s our day off.

I know what you are thinking:
All would be resolved
If only you could grab me up
Then put me down
And move yourself into me,
Blasting your notion of the life force
And its supposed answers into me.

I point to a light sneaking through
A slip of cloud. I lie when I say
That’s you.

The storm that haunts the separated-connected
Bones in my back,

The storm we cannot yet see
As we stroll in this treeless expanse
Of tall green,
I feel it and know that
It is me.