Weeds grow where they want to; not where they're told to grow...


John Swain

Preparation of the Ashes

Scythes parted the trees before the world opened
and we received clairvoyance from silver vapors,
the bright day colored your face like a cured leaf.
Sun burned a hawk shadow on the dry watershed,
tomorrow morning I will have to dig another well
as breezes twist our scented washings on the line.
Men found enchantment around your linen dress,
so I explained to them your night before the caliph,
only our angel was stoned by the people in town.
With water from a basin you dampened strips of cloth
as I lit lamps like a watcher measuring our distance,
the scars of this undress astounded me with beauty.
We clamor in the kinship of bronzed leaved arms
reminiscent of the wafer and the camphor bewitched,
I wished you would have placed upon my tongue.


White Cloth

I purchased white cloth
to lay across the rain
like the tomb of a queen.
Released from the sky,
we delight
in immaterial textures
borne by our gated mind.
Water became our veil
to touch contemplation
like pears at your lips.


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