Cradle, soft cradle of the upper bend,
Flowing as through itself the stream,
Upon the majesty and the wake
upon the right side of the hollow moon
colored yellow-white by bone beneath
disjointed and towering, ulnar and radii
towering above, swaying above
singing and passing through
songs that flow till death’s wind,
working freely
singing in many voices and tones that single word:
“Man”
echoing throughout but not in time:
“Man”
how great and little, how once and now
here and hereafter
how holy and impure
how like a falling bridge is moored
against the banks
how like a forest stream the voice
cascades, mingles, rests.
cradle, soft cradle the glimmering soul
the ears, the eyes
that hide the waking of the wolves
that hide the towers sway
building upon themselves and as ever between:
Here is the arm.
Now time is up.
Now drop yourself and flee.
Your time is up.
Now close your eyes and free
your arm drenched deep in death.
Tuesday mornings early mist
rising from the Seine
rising from the fields of sleep
From hollow bones
From market streets
From steaming butchers
cut of meat,
From cleaved dreams
And broken forms
Mists from hollow minds
And homeless nests
Ghosts of dawn
Clearing the city,
Settling suddenly,
Shrouding the sacred chapel
momentarily blinding God.
Here is the arm
The arm that swayed
The arm that lust has made.
The radiant child had a vision
He saw the spirit in a glade
He wrote his message
On D-train walls
Lived through fire
Died in flame.
This radiant child made a name
His heart is burnt his arm remains.
Here is the arm.
Orphaned by the hand grenade
This arm a child soldiers spade
Solemnly that digs the grave
In which youth’s innocence is laid.
An unmarked mound.
Here is the arm.
Cradle, harsh cradle of the upper bend
Nervous bundles between the steel
Between the furnace and the mire
Stripped of spirit, full of greed,
The materialist fulfills his need
Architects the mind and sees
His arm crushed deep in death.
Lo Karna’s chariot wheel entrenched!
Hear the whistling arrow fly!
With no earrings head unbent,
The guru’s curse is met
By the embers of the once born sun.
Fleetingly a smile to his lips born
Singing the tatters of his fate
to winds of solace, to winds of grace
He walks into sunlight’s sequestered aisle
Radiance spilling between the shade
As filaments caught in beams of light
Spin unguided and pass between
Shimmering then nothing
Glimpses of a golden dawn
On bird white wings.
Cradle, soft cradle of the upper bend,
flowing as through itself the stream
Man the transient, the transient man,
how great and little, how once and now
how holy and impure
how like a churning forest stream
cascades, mingles, rests.
