I. So it comes to this: pangea tearing itself raw
from our throats to pour into squares of newly open sky
where the stars grew aches and darkened lakewater
once bloomed into bruised winters. Somewhere
beyond the thick of snow, prayers are strung
on moon-rattled winds
and birds' teeth tear apart the poetry
of our hands. They will raise something beautiful
from these ruined words.
Continents shift slowly. They are
dirt-bound titans, these beasts;
rootless giants that mold themselves
to fit the vision we hold inside our heads. Oceans sigh
and their tides crawl ever upward.
II. Our shadows become umbilical
in certain light. Unknown children cast
dark shapes of water
to nourish the gardens springing forth
from the dirt's wrist like a eulogy for lost sky.
Morning doves sing because they see what we cannot:
the years between us laid out like miles and our feet
that never mark the reddened earth and
the passion-trees birthing flowers of such cold, untamed souls.
We are walking in the wombs of stars. Here our soft-spoken dreams
turn stillborn, unmoving as the winter sun's spokes, unholy
as moonless night. You will find their ashes
in the form of lovers, back touching naked back.
III. A rainstorm grows in violent blossom. Its water does not fall
but tumbles, an endless stream of fists
tearing away clusters of scabbing clouds and battering
tender-eyed dawn. The horizon is a fresh wound
which cleaves the world in two, fraying at the edges
and unhinged like bald-faced craniums. Swollen moons
slip through the cracks to bathe forests
with handfuls of pale and sickly light. We become divine
in this darkness, even without wing or garb
or golden flame to illuminate the road. I do not turn
to sky to pray
when our feet become black with walking-- your words
are the only god I need.