[Arrival]

The doorway yawns to make a passage for the lad,

a gate op’ning out upon the chairs and stove whereat

Zjemlya kisses Ouranos and mythicals the sofas,

the chrism’s song-fragrance mingling with th’ aromas

that curl ’round the door-posts, and anchor them; for brokenness

shall sleep offstage,

and build its cage

later.

~~

[Journey/Trip]

The sentinel-posts give blessings as he passes out the doorway,

an angel springs from crib-perch to navigate the noonday

shade,

which Ouranos must shield him from whenever there is need,

by raising mirth within his chest, and Fire that can speed

him on to Regions where his oatmeal will not mumble, fret and bleed

vexation, rifts,

dis-

location, trysts

with madness, constantly.

~~~

[Return from Journey]

May joyful weariness e’er blanket him on his returns,

whether reaching for the face of Sky, and by the same so spurred,

or delights to set and rest his feet in nourishing cool Earth,

though these now never meet, uncoupled, hidden, suff’ring dearth

of touch

and taste;

the Sky

escaped

from Earth’s

embrace:

replace

the barbed

mandates

with calm,

and dates

bought in

the place

they met;

he

won’t penetrate the Earth with tears,

the ground has hardened with the fears

he gave her.

——————-Yet the shoots she rears

still yearn for light that future years

might give them, if you’re patient, Sky,

enduring Earth’s long night: –reply!

your children long for you.

~~~~

[Exile]

So floor and roof are torn apart and spun out from all bearings,

the grey-clouds steal the Sky from him, while Earth is choked with tearing

weeds, and desert creep that stuff the hearth-mouth full; may pilgrims see

the need you have for pillows, slippers, socks and gracious lee-way,

your home

a tent

of roaming;

vent

your exile

on this shitpile

of a thing

they bring

to your backpack.

 

Forgive them,

if you have the knack.