Things having to be returned to their transparency:
/ green mist-earth / knit
atmosphere / fathomless
blue-lavender / lights
spun out from light
are recalcitrance / and you
& - a fingernail of summer
- a melting of rain
- a crown of flowers
- a priest of sunsets
(beautiful? I love you, because. Zemi.
Zemi. are you beautiful because I love
you? Zemi? )
I imagine this is what it's like to breathe sea foam
over the Cliffs of Moher: hydration. absolution.
To Rilke, it's a melody that floods over us
when we have forgotten how to listen for it.
I never could forget this: for how could I know
my hand as both well and chasm? and how could I know
time, a windstruck dimension, standing in her white street?
We go on morning walks and Zemi
laughs at everything I say. He
wears it on a cord
around his neck when he sleeps:
my omphalos of rainwater,
hyacinthine blossom on his chest,
his bioluminescence tearing on the glass;
beneath him, the city
rumbles and the infinite
When we go home to zero, what seraphic voice
will declare so clear our unbecoming?
The places Zemi has been to, again there
he will go,
bipolar god of
saint amid rain