This is my heart. It is a
good heart. Bones and a membrane of mist and fire are the woven cover.
When we make love in the flower world my heart is close enough to sing
to yours in a language that has no use for clumsy human words.
My head is a good head, but
it is a hard head and it whirs inside with a swarm of worries. What is
the source of this singing, it asks and if there is a source why can't I see
it right here, right now as real as these hands hammering the world
together with nails and sinew?
This is my soul. It is a
good soul. It tells me, "come here forgetful one." And we sit together
with a lilt of small winds who rattle the scrub oak. We cook a little
something to eat: a rabbit, some sofkey then a sip of something sweet
This is my song. It is a
good song. It walked forever the border of fire and water climbed ribs
of desire to my lips to sing to you. Its new wings quiver with
Come lie next to me, says my
heart. Put your head here. It is a good thing, says my soul.