The many rooms I've washed with tears . . .

Kind casket calling me to rest...

Warm blanket woven with my fears . . .

...at last, the babe comes home.

But she drawing forth
from the depths of his eyes---
rods, cones, umbilical cords

But the hammer blows
her to her knees
and he's bad.

But the hammer blows
him to his knees
and he's sad.

But the hammer blows
inside her head --
and she's mad.

His waiting, working hours
spellbound by the frequent
hammer blows.

Scarred of scares she's had,
what does she drop in a sea of blood?

Rubies drop into the fortune teller's crystal lap.
Tarot cards fall one by one.

What does she see in a drop of blood?
Is she scared of scars ?

In the myriad lens
of the bee's eye
miniscule Messiahs
mend their tallises.

In slumber
the lumbering
Christ of Molecules...

His snores bore her.

She judges
the others--
incarcerating
races, tribes,
gangs, and
communes.

He cries. She crawls.
They stand apart
and make their marks --
the stains upon the walls.

Build on the backs of honey scented babes
pyramids, columns, arcs, & helices.

...to the lake where
the sensual come
in fluid lines.

Splintered lips hold back
the birth of the word:

Go...

all poetry was written before time

Emerald and topaz moss

covered two large roots,

spread like legs above the ground.