VenusEnvy

I acknowledge my status as a stranger:Inappropriate clothes,
odd habits out of sync with wasp and wren.
I admit I don’t know how To sit still or move without purpose.
I prefer books to moonlight, statuary to trees.
But this lawn has been leveled for looking,
So I kick off my sandals and walk its cool green.
Who claims we’re mere muscle and fluids?
My feet are the primitives here.
As for the rest—ah, the air now
Is a tonic of absence,
bearing nothing But news of a breeze

(1) Those who can distinguish which voice is god’s voice sounding in a summer dusk, when he calls with the same rising frequency, the same rasp and rattling rustle the cicadas use
as they cling to the high leaves in the glowing
dust of the oaks.

(2) The intuitive ones who sense that their exclamations might blend so precisely with the final crises of swallows settling at dusk that no one will ever be able to say with certainty, if that last long cry winging over the rooftop came from heaven

I believe there is a song that is stranger than wind, that sips the scald from the telling in the room, I move in to each sky’s erasing, for it was shrill winter, blast and blur. It was farther from the native birds and the gray heath heathers uncaressable thighs who shook in violet those who fly must always burn the nest. But the mind in its implacable dims to brown to back, in the crevicing days, there are no words for silence, as the lidless moon and the silver hands of the fountain space your fails and teach it pansophic.