I want this poem to turn like a sunflower
Toward a face bigger than the sun,
To listen to talking bridges and singing turtles,
To bend its long swan neck and close its eyes,
To become that kiss and that sweet spot,
The cradled humming,
“In Christ There Is No East or West.”
To sing “Uncloudy Day”
In sacred harp voices, foursquare and loud,
To cool you with a puff of breath.
I want to lay these words in your lap
Like your slide guitar or a sleepy child.
There is a ring around the moon tonight,
John Aloysius Fahey,
Sometimes considered propitious
But not always the best of signs.
The night noise has subsided
And the singing turtles have commenced to dream.
The sun, embraced in the moon’s eclipse,
Has once again begun to move.
The wind is up and blowing through the unfurled sails
And rigging of The Yellow Princess.
She is out of the doldrums and headed for the open sea
Under the Southern Cross.
The constellations have renewed their drift.
What remains is what passes between us at this moment.
The past stretches out in front of us,
The future, and all that is gaining on us
Are beyond words, beyond our remonstrance.
The man in the moon can only reflect
The countenance of a distant love.
The people who worship by staring
Raw at the sun quickly go blind.
The last thing they see is the radiance
Of that solitary and distant love.
“Long John, is long gone.
Long gone with his long johns on.
he’s got a heel in front and a heel behind
And they never will tell which way he’s gone.”
The melody has faded from the grooves
Of those thick, old seventy eights.
They’ve been played over and over
Until they just wore out,
Like the valves and chambers of the heart.
Beyond the sun that you can’t stare at for long
Face to face, a fragrance you can’t name.
A cool finger touches your chest.
A kiss on the sweet spot with just a little tremolo.
A slide up to that high A on the tenth fret.