I

I walk on the fur of the earth, buzzed
close to spires of cool basalt
                                        temples that honor ancestor rock,
no longer bleeding hot from virgin veins, flooding the forest’s floor,
drowning all in its roar,
                                        a holy Sabbath without
celebration, within your hairs of midnight ocean, wrap-
ping around my thighs, carrying to my eyes
the fire of the sea.

                                I release
tears of sand that shimmer with light from morning moon—sand
enough to stem the flood.


II

I look for the earth raised up in one place, standing,
waiting like a pillow, fluffed
                                                at the edge of the night sea,
an open wound that cannot be healed
                                                with crosses of ice, broken bones
not fixed with the starfish of David.

                                                A poultice of mica-schist,
back-lit with moon’s black light. A flashing of life—
Diaspora, riding the comet spawn, arcing the sky
and whatever surface it finds, once again.

                                                Once again, the only time
                that matters, the only time
we have.



© 2004 by Terry Lucas