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

erbacce-press

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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