The heart does not sing in canons
The melody the sound unknown
The heart’s stillness is emptied of motion
The heart’s motion is emptied of stillness
With desire the hand does pour
The contents held in the eternal cusp like fragile crystal
Such fragility does illusion make
An enemy of love can break such dominion
How is this enemy myself?
Sunk deep into the pocket of the thief’s jeans
I find my number scrawled on crumpled paper,
To my identity I call,
and she answers
I hear a voice that is not my own
“How is this enemy myself?” I cry
Belabored by the
integral I cannot find my sheath
I have lost all cause such purpose unknown.
Sovereignty sings in temples
The catalogues of the oppressed mount cathedrals
When in this architectural design does one illustrate
the power
to signify the divine?
The sheep’s skin is worn pressed against flesh,
and not one
traitor can trace your face in the shadows
For lurking beneath the constraint of time
The graces of union lick the erratic assault
The concept of defense extinguished
Where walls of cathedrals fall
to witness
the internal collapse of division
Where posterior to concepts deconstruct the omission
of self of
other of enemy.
The heart’s autonomy is emptied of union
The heart’s union is emptied of autonomy
And from this heart pours motion,
And from this heart pours stillness.
