This is the scrape and scar of disarming sin, The God scrub.- Filtered pallors hurricane the holy void Empty and innocent 5 And quite as frank as an open mirror or storm-eye. Oz-God with his cattle prod And tanned hands replete with treats Tells us in Schonenberg tones We must wash or wear out. 10 Old hopes, old hands, old wings Weaken and retard my rinsing and rising; What held me up now halts me. My father's feathers that lightened my marrow Now endow my face with suffocation 15 As thick as Icarus' kisses. All these withered glimmers and subtle shines Impinge and peel off in the mud; All Earth is crowded with 'down.' And I, I rise in rain 20 My high lungs two cauldrons of flammible gold, My hope as strong as a bird's hollow bones.
From the collection "The Soft Assault"
Written by Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]
More information available on gregglory.com.