The Fury Of Guitars And Sopranos

This singing
Is a kind of dying,
A kind of birth,
A votive candle.
I have a dream-mother
Who sings with her guitar,
Nursing the bedroom
With a moonlight and beautiful olives.
A flute came too,
Joining the five strings,
A God finger over the holes.
I knew a beautiful woman once
Who sang with her fingertips
And her eyes were brown
Like small birds.
At the cup of her breasts
I drew wine.
At the mound of her legs
I drew figs.
She sang for my thirst,
Mysterious songs of God
That would have laid an army down.
It was as if a morning-glory
Had bloomed in her throat
And all that blue
And small pollen
Ate into my heart
Violent and religious.

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