A high buzzard
touches the mind
In a yard
of bleached bones,
Bare, calloused feet
heel the knocks
of sand,
Under cloud
dark beet,
No
water to sustain
Not even tongue
of root. Nor rain
to lick the rocks
In the turtle-lidded
insides
Of shells, once eyes:
A beggar collects
pennies for the temple
Pennies are pain’s gold.
Then from under the cock’s crow,
And hook-winged Molloch,
A star strumpet’s snow angel sallies
Across the desert floor
With His word
Absolution,
To clean the mind
Of its preoccupations
Cleanse rude
light off the Eastern rain
Through the
heat
Cool winding rose
Surfaces
All in the mind
August is reconfigured,
To expire
in good time
(Originally posted March 28, 2007)
Beauty is Imperfection 