Away with the language of weeping,
the angel of perfection can go hang herself
and burn her lilies of ambition, too.
Try to be done now with the golden bees,
the envy of another’s sainted breathing.
Instead, embrace the outer orchard—
the well-water and scrub rose,
our terrestrial music of shave
and shower, toast and tea.
Away from the temple, forget supplicants.
Slip into this season’s must have boots.
What you want is what you have always wanted—
a blue fountain, Moroccan, with the Arabic
abjad, drink and belief. Double note of window
and world. Look past the long tendrils of line break—
forget dactyls and old apples,
the symbolic yew. No more words!
Tomorrow, you will revel in flavor and folly.
O brave mouth— and touch and scent—
send coherent messages through this body
like flares off a meteor shower.
You can become your own glass sponge—
move through this green world—
silent, astonished, undone.