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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