The Deep Origin of Water




There, see the places of circles, gods, and of fires
where toads of topaz dawn-light splash herculean slicks,
and soft, the clear voice of ducks, like plums, strum dawns' lyres.

Around many fires churns angers.  Eyes, tongue-like, flick.
Shadowed crickets clasprasp and strum the lyre's plum songs
where toads of topaz dawn-light splash herculean slicks,

as dead trees, stilled, press the ground -- something ancient longs
for blood, flesh; yet dead rivers fling their pollen to wrens.
Shadowed crickets clasprasp and strum the lyre's plum songs.

Prayers, mourning, and sorrowful jaws rage to gods, wrench.
Goats' throats spray through arcs of knives; another king's bell is dry,
as blood, flesh and dead rivers fling their pollen to wrens.

Herculean thick, all chests, where banners bellow fly.
Butterflies, come Spring, shall tend their oddly lovely seas.
Goats' throats shall spray through arcs of knives -- dull bells, again, dry.

Though war may splash through mountains, wrens rise through folded wings.
Butterfly, come spring, shall tend its oddly lovely seas.
There, see the place of nails, its water of God's fire's
soft, clear voice of ducks like plums, strumming dawn through lyres.
 


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DannyBeatty
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