|
Bibles are dead pulp,
smudge and cowhide, |
|
word a quicksilver
sword of the heart, |
|
a light fed with
soul oil |
|
pressed in a valley
low where walls |
|
between my grove
and thine crumble to ruins. |
|
|
|
|
|
Bibles torture a
confession. |
|
Word flowers over
its jot and tittle, |
|
suffused with water
of life |
|
flowing from the
center |
|
of a golden city
fifteen hundred miles deep. |
|
|
|
|
|
Bibles are gilt edged
idols. |
|
Word transmits from
wind, leaf, sorrow. |
|
The inky oracle moans,
half inarticulate, |
|
sounding from stone
to cumulating stone |
|
fathomless caverns
of merging ancestry. |
|
|
|
|
|
Bibles are woody
vessels. |
|
Word is a leaf medicine
of the original tree, |
|
food for the belly, |
|
spreading from the
iron core |
|
beneath the skin
of nations to heal the Body. |
|
|
|
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