Fourth Psalm: Indescribably Delicious
Somewhere past the seaweed
where the ocean bends
into the mouth of a river,
I discover myself
staring at a dance
of hawks. The wind is great
and skies are minimal
with mid-November sun.
Two hawks are circulating
in their blood of time
with shadowy wings and vital
eyes and feathers made
from filaments of light.
I raise my arms and sense
a rousing draft beneath
my disbelief begin
to lift my spirit towards
some height of no return.
I breeze past all ironies
and deconstructions built
by random architects
of immaterial
material until
I reach a place I can’t describe.
~Son Rivers 2005
see the complete The Secret Book of Son Rivers to date
No comments:
Post a Comment