Sweet Grass Earrings

 Sweet-grass-earrings,
wheat bracelets,
conical immensities
inside potent ginger roots
stemming every which way...

Thought-lessened heart aches,
paint spilled and dripping sideways
towards an ancient floor
that's now a wall,
who was once a hopscotch game
penciled out to become an Inn...

The musicians echoing
to save one another's dream
of being the soul boat glistening,
to retrieve a balance
that rivals childhood's first fruit-taste,
its first backwards balancing act,
the curtains too shy
to close against
such bright necessities
as the Standers of Right Now.

The movement of quiet feathers unruffled,
unnested,
untied and tethered
only upon a heartbeat's
reaction to thunder
innocently arriving on noon
and midnight candle-tops...

The melting greenery,
the cascading wondrous textures of anger
and angelic wish-for-nothings,

An avalanche of landless hurricanes,
eyeless potentialities
and charmless perfect love...

Chartless territories of the soul's curiosity,
restless regeneration and blossoms
that mingle with dancing single thorns
sprouting luminous golden roots...

Spinning attractions of gnats
who chant gods asleep
beneath their cobra-mosquito nets,

The slickness of a watery dive
into a mouth who saves close to its heart
and shouts inside a cotton ball
"We've loved before
and Before is Always's lover."

The missed perfect opportunity
to take another route
that's beyond the All and Everything
perfection-domain...

An amassed little boy
who glows radiant between
the shouting,
the blame,
the aiming at a legion of lion calls
to turn back around
and do something
since nothing seems the same anymore;
yet he cannot claim The Same...

The talking stones have become silenced,
the frozen thawing has evaporated into
clouds who no longer pave angels blurry-
comforted vision,
roses cannot mean love here,
while Meaning sprawls out on tiger-embryos,
painting their bodies with menace and
definition of grace's appetite,
grace's prowl...

A quiet owl
standing on the stoop
belonging to the house of
an elderly woman
who has just given up
her knitted shrine's last inhale:
A deep holding fasts inside her,
clutching its spirit-stomach asleep,
waiting for what falls out
of Buddha's overfull bowl
and into hers
that's riddled with holy-patched holes.