The Voiced Glowing

June 26, 2010

The voiced glowing,
a talked about wing,
the hummingbird who soared
towards a Hawaiian shirt
drying on a clothesline
that could perfectly kiss train tracks
if it wanted to,

These roots in his hands,
a mule standing against an orange
backdrop of foregrounds calling to
one another to begin
and a painter leaving all his work,
walking home,
watching from afar
as an oncoming storm finishes
the portrait of its own clouds,

A penniless woman made of
platinum, gold and emeralds,
she’s not speaking in tongues,
ask her to slow the hymnal down
and discover that its all birdsong-strings
of winning lottery numbers,

In her hands is the same plant
as his roots belonged to
though these are its leaves
bunched inside prayer hands
turned to grasping,
and some are in her petticoat,
while the saddles of her heart
are stuffed with rainbow seeds,
waterfall tubers
and tropical-paradise bulbs,
not to mention the galaxy spores,

A restless wind chime
who has not stirred
inside itself enough
wears out its string and falls,
making the sound it has yearned to
achieve all the years it hovered
in the tree,
thinking,
dreaming of the perfect breeze…