Poem 144: The Wound Dresser

house of rain
drumming skin,
moth quickens ,
beating against
the pain of glass.

She is here, not here.
a heartbeat skip
sees the grasshopper hero
in the meadow green,
Dresden sheen,
water dance
in the porcelain,
contained light
moving in simpatico flow
that unravels
a pulse in the fingers,
undressing strings
of the moon,
seen now,
as a silver shining
that screens
my night laced
window watching
reflecting only
the inside looking out,
peeling layers
from the bell keeping night,
praying for your return
and in the lock of fingers,
psalms of light.

She is here, not here.
and I am wed
to the nakedness
of her widowed shoulder,
that profiles
the need
and flicker of skin,
reflexing her breast
now palm healed
and burning
in my hand
as a soft hardness
that tongues
the garnered light
of her razored sun,
where in the ragged trough
skin is paired
to the flesh tones
now heard
in the bone,
eclipsing the echo
of empty.

You are here, not here.
In the black forest,
blue sky
in the opening
of her envelope,
liquid warmth singing
in the caverns
of the holy,
choraling fire,
stoned to the rim,
the cup of my naked self
running over
as melting thickens
the air that I hold .

She is here, not here,
as finite patterns
breathe space
into the leaves
of the golden ring
heartbeats on the
anvil of dreaming,
infinitely drowning
for the sound
of your voice
in this room
chaos retreating
for the cloud dancer
on his way
back to the fire.

You are felt, not felt.
Sculpted by flame
hollowed by shadow,
I can see the air
around you shines
and moves like water,
bathing the wound.
I drink of you,

you are here not here.
And I am frozen by her heat,
cauterized, root blasted
core spread, night swaying,
night etched,
sword cut to the quick
of the living in the dead,
scaled in the balance,
sickled well,
you harvest my seed,
now drifting,
as melting snow falls
from the branches black,
moving sunlight
into the lake
the soft ripples
contend and flow
as fragments of sky
pooled in the blue
mirror of you,

you are here, not here.
After this
she smiles openly,
cymbaline light
behind the eyes,
slowly dressing the wound,
leaving no scar
as the longer shadows
lengthen together
and fade transparently.
And I am healed in her wing,
churched in her body,
as the applauding
ghosts and gods
of the all around
gather in holding close.

You are here, not here.
in the blindingly
pure white
of the square
at high noon,
stone coins
are warmed in the mosaic
of the fountain,
as childhood sings
in the flare of the rose
stained glass,
that windows
then congregates
the redemptive light
perfectly, holding
then releasing just enough
for the colours
to shine through you,
are here.