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January 27, 2009 | | Comments 0

Riley Ann Sawyers

January 27, 2009

Riley Ann Sawyers

From where did all this moss
rise from, and overnight?

I re-enter the kingdom and trip
ahead one month,
erase that typo
and am given back to today,
to you,
to your heartbeat scriptures
spoken through the sonnets of disbelief
and rivers shining with electricity,
holding fire opal fishing rods,
standing up on blue volcanic shorelines
and setting their lures for everything beneath themselves
they couldn’t see by the too bright daylight
and moonless evening rulings.

And although the icicles kept thawing,
that earthen nourishment stood too,
and cast its line far into the silent riverbed,
looking, waiting for anything to move.

I see pure white deer walking across a
field flooded in multicolored glitter;
a little whirlwind is passing by
and is distributing pictures of you.

One of these portraits settles on a
doe’s back; she gently turns to see it
and nervously transforms
into a low lying cloud.

The deer behind her,
who saw your photo floating earthward
prior to its leaf having settled,
curled over Sound,
silently appointing itself as facing you upwards,
turning into a campfire colored green,
white,
lilac
and a coral-salmon hue.

The stones corralling these flames
were your solar system’s planets,
those bodies that telescopes cannot yet see,
uncostumed and blaze-holding a part
of you within.

The group’s third deer couldn’t ‘turn’ to see,
since it was a 2341-point buck,
one that knew this whirling sound,
that music of ‘your kind’ of leaflets,
the awe of expected majesty
and those rearrangements the spectator
must then wear when the parade has proven
too loud for its own imagined redemption,

That the heart’s real limitations
have to turn its carrier into something else,
closer to what the heart can actually
dance with,

Because so often Love listens rightly for itself,
outward it seeks and is itself
to the orphaned peripheral realities
and not the world as the world mines itself,

Piling excavation on top of Patience
and impatience
on top of the Fragrance of Innocence
and stories unfolding in the crowns of lotuses
and the begging blind.

We see them.
They feel us looking and matter motions,
the ground shakes,
thimbles march across April
who may do nothing until June admits
that its jewel lied.

The cloud moves nearer to the fireside now
and as darkness lets down one convex shade,
the stag takes a place near it
and puts its chin on the warm ground,
as fairies hang 2340 pieces of laundry to dry on its points.

The fire blazes,
telling the ethereal and underkingdoms all about you,
and as they notice your hands,
your voice,
the way you picked things up
who were larger than your strength could say
‘I can’,
the way you combed knots out of your hair,
the way the sunshine passed its rays to you,
so you could see,
so you could believe yourself beyond faith
that this world about you
was indeed not an untouchable,

They, the nether and celestial seamstresses
finally affirm what the fliers gently demanded of them,
and by this they held up and down,
your earthy and soul-body’s gowns.

And there,
across horn #2341 your choices lay:
and as you stepped from the cloud,
releasing its ambiguities back to its doe
and walking through the fire,
dousing the raging and the raining flames,

I slowly stood up from my place of view,
closed this half red hot and half frozen
sketchbook titled,

‘You, you and you.’

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