Thursday, October 28, 2010

Fermata Liturgics

Low vaults of streams, rills and washes
attend the special attraction of nymphs, flies, 
and streamers. You rise at the presentation
unaware to the slenderest tippet of choice.

The leaded dawn of the overreaching cast
snags our local tongue, and we are downed
as only the best lord of me is counted as cost
again. Lost again without so much as an erection

or scrying tent of our urgent mouth. We
rise to bait as words, and fall to water 
as impotent fodder before the radished hips
that curl towards hope sprung eternal.

Shame on me. I am lost to fisherfolk and fail
the catch. The morning prayer's Canticles of
Mary are sponge bait for bottom feeder me,
blood stink and solons of marked thick water.

In the water, barrenness holds. Your bare
feet on the lowboards. Begin again. Begin
again. Begin the high rolling casts. Throw
the presentations again. Thummin odds.

Redeem this cast in the dark. 
I have nothing to set before him, 
but there is the asking, the rebuilt
altars, the loosening of creation.

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