1p13.3 (Hæmopœsis)

Ear to your sternum I hear
the rhythms our children will reveal
onto a future: behind all elements
an amniotic music at the source
hidden from light’s articulation, a seed
rooting through you: the heart in
the wrist, hands pulse unto darkness,
spring in you rinsing against time.

We leave the grove with seeds
between our teeth, hum we hear
haloed with mosquitoes, sweat & elements:
your mouth sopped with berries, turns
into mine, tongue seeking a wound
in your cheek, an opening revealed.

I drink you immune from time
as the boy me whose wounds
I sucked clean survives inside, reveals
restraint beneath the rush I hear,
hinted meridians our veins align toward.

Ear to your heart, the source
of dirt’s spectrum: purple, orange, pouring in
millions each moment from some umbrous source
within us, shuttling through many turns
woven and formed toward that source.

Chorus of shelled echoes: I hear
my arteries wreathed between yours, revealing
us and any selves mingling elements
as one… Body. Meadow. Organism. Source
unknown, our whirling alphabet of seeds
stirs into our children and in
loving toil conconts this fertile darkness:

Our daily bread condensed from time
and energy, cascading up from seed
to fuel our mutual hunger. Here,
magic carroms through any simple element
(oil, currency or names) we turn
toward longing. Meaning is a wound
in us, the hole a door reveals.

Pulse fluxes in us like time
or vice-versa, veined & wound
throughout: it throbs into thought, reveals
the helical heavens, a harmony heard,
tides in you love inclines toward,

the song that hearing is: its source.
Poem over, its rhythm wanders in
your body briefly, amid that source
material, its inverse signature, it turns
over breathless, deathlessly seeking a source.