There are sharp angles in the air, wind-blown spring debris, rain-spits, the ghosts of melted ice somewhere north.
Slow stars stream like growing words, and the vast book of the sky is already full.
We need never live, says the voice in the dark, the universe throbs with poison and joy enough.
So, what is there in this broken blue, what magic lingers like salt in a sea-soaked sail?
Perhaps if I blow away with this breeze, fly with wings of grass and feathered petals into the night, I will remember where they run, those bright rivers of light, and cup them in hopeful hands before they die.
Once again, I knocked on the Oracle’s door and read the first page in the book, and the words that jumped out were the words I never use. Before I concentrated on finding the poem, I noted down some of these unusable words, then the words that I could use, just out of curiosity.
Words that never inspire: boy egg butt peach puppy lust sausage candy cake bug baby angel sex pie caramel
words that always inspire: dream lie head play say run raw spring spray smear skin still want water sky drink voice
words rarely used: men woman god goddess sister brother son concrete
Conclusion: I am drawn to the abstract and natural, and I am totally uninterested in food, divinities and heart-warming or just plain human relationships.
The painting is by Odilon Redon (again).
This broken sky pours its sadness to sop and slop hollow earth, its salt tears gnawing.
You ask, can wounds heal so deep, so far, if we reach into the blue and close the lips with a kiss, listen to the words and remember the song?
We’ll dance, I say, let the breeze bring comfort, fly over flower-grass spangled with cast-off stars of old night,
open the window to the stream of waking laughter, and join the singing voices of eternity.