Washed Assured

is the sea not mad?
or has summer boiled us whole?
the breeze has dripped salt on my lips
and I have turned wild

your salt on my lips
will you take me to the cedar grove?

I was a prisoner in the garden
milking black honey from shoots
planting my two-lips along dry basins
and longing for tuberous truths

but then you, mud angel
trespassing on another’s dream
slipped your way into my Eden
and washed my fate clean

and at once my life remembered
the cyclic splash of bleak Decembers
had suddenly seemed stranger
than the present tense

as your grace as great as prophet
unto my impostor self imparted
a planar truth no more contorted
then, this present sense

and sorrow’s held no solace since

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