The spring and I are strangers now,
extending hungry glances
through fat green stems and
the blush of fallen berries—
those beloved friends
of the pilgrim’s foot.
More and more I slip into the soil
to read the pages of rock.
Retreating to the muddy infinite,
I spy the fleshy leviathan,
earthworm tonguing a local seed,
speaking too slow and old.
I press a finger to
this empty parenthetical of skull.
My hand once thirsted for a pen,
now, my mimicry of earth things is exhausted.
To hold again
the high pearls of the night,
budding from a handsome book
who once erected my clumsy head
and took his nature in my hands.
The golden ghost rises over river silt,
is strange and shines in higher hospitality.
I lean back to receive her glowing lips,
that she might breath me.
Though here she comes again,
among the tender flowers to say,
I would make a friend of this mind,
And again draw nectar from its halo,
now dulled of new revolution by
my sweet tooth for memory—
here, I write letters to the sun.