And should we even speak of these things
you and I
for whom the husk of words
contains no real sustenance
Is there still pleasure or purpose
in fashioning communion wafers
for the soul's love
when we are but logs
in the same fire?

and yet there is something that
lifts these images toward you
like a hand is drawn
to a lover's face
and His name rises in stones
a generosity
larger than body, mind, soul
or any distinction between them

this flute has seven notes
and tonight some song
is using all of them
but not to say anything important
It is the night singing
to the full moon
the fire of space
come down in to
the graveyard
all the corpses are dancing
and some inchoate joy
is pounding
on the taut drumskin

of the earth's heart