Early Gnosis

‍
In the something-       comfort
of late             July    the      newborn

snake              clings             to
the      seeing-through                      meaning    

what once was            ground up
meaning         my sliding      glass   kitchen

door    meaning         see      here
how it             scooches         scooches

against this    sterile surrogate
that does not              spurn  or        admonish

but is              neutral enough
to witness       the diamond               head-waggle

the      bud-red           tongue dismissed…

‍

‍Scribe‍

I was not        nor meant       to be
the daemon    you     made of        me…

Pause              and remember
the time last  our arcs          crossed

in the roadside           heather…

Oh sleeper      did it   matter
did I count      at all               do you

recall  how you         trembled not
as I     lay by the                   thousand-petaled

lilies               near the          cave-wall;
your heart never         never  asked  once  

if I were disloyal        a Janus-faced protector…

Near the gate              the iron gate
I saw you       first     school-aged    wrapped

in a shawl       a purple          shawl
and your eyes             home-sick      incandescent  

as you             walked barefoot         among the thistles
faster  slower            drawing          near

nearer             for you knew             I never bore
one               thought           of stealth

cunning          or        betrayal…
‍

Wandering Thought‍

          Draw me, we will run after thee…
                          -- Song of Solomon 1:4
‍
‍And    the sound came         gradually
or so it            seemed                       like the           beginning

of beauty        at the  very    edge
of consciousness        and light         drew me to

the something-more   of the garden  my childhood
garden where I heard            the wind  

sough             like the evening’s       breath  through
the      dark copse     of oak            and pine

dense with heather     marked           with gorse
and I became  small  in the temple              of my flesh

as my footsteps          entered           the silence
the      prodigal          silence            that descended

and thickened             like the distant           sound
of an organ’s             pedal…

And the pastel silks    on the summer clothes-line
swayed like    druid poppies             and I heard    

the long coil rattle                  abba abba
moving           towards me    its tongue       rekindled

like    any     pentecostal     flame…