11q13.2 (Credo)

To be clear. I’m not sure how
belief is different than hypothesis,
except it weighs me in the balance.

JUST GO. And what if I leave
some out? YOU WILL. Okay then, I believe:

The hidden green wings of the orange tree.

Solace and urge of camouflage. The seed-
clouds wrung in gold from cypress, palsied

ache of spring. TO BE
IS FURTHER THAN TO THINK. I know, I cleave

to thoughts which harness the perceived
edifice of dust to drift and dream.

With words. In words. I believe
these gestures tangling soil and breeze,
possessed by distance: BREATHE,

MY ERRANT OWN: that gravity
cables my ligaments
under molten floor and then

unto the charted stars – the howl
of meadow and shadow is among me

a shallow hole, a grail, a sea of
wings rising, rinsing. YOU CAN’T CONCEIVE.

If hell’s X marks the midst of me, if
beauty’s greedy tendril weaves
me earthward, if… FAITH IS WEIGHT: I BELIEVE

ON THE NARROW BED OF YOUR BODY
IN ALL THINGS VISIBLE AND INVISIBLE

In the compounding and immense
space that ferments
between what we say and all

we mean to mean: may we breathe
subtle air within that great naïveté

and never draw the O complete
and leave the open cove my mouth

echoless aside the unclenched winds
–orisons without end. To balance
someplace vaster than my feet

will go, and to receive
whatever narrow frequencies
the Bright Margins will tender me

with open ochre palms, and never leave.