Tuesday, November 13, 2007

harmony arms

Harmony arms come for me through open windows, lace the streets with their gentle swooping reach. Harmony arms come for me through his mouth, cracked with sleep and only, bound for the holy.

The moment I met him all dear hands
behind desk, head hatted, typewriter typing not paper but
ribbons only wider, made of gold and of childhood sparkling,
spilling onto the floor out into the streets as if--

He was born all instinct, inborn, three o'clock in the morning.
He was born in a clearing, harmony arms took him to a clearing
Fog in sheets streamed through panes of glass, occurring on the minute.

Woke up at sundown to
hair tussled, fingernail palmed.
Don't know daylight but still
hopeful--trait nothing short of hereditary.

Consider this:
belly up, ceiling watch for branches to
scale limb by limb, each one a do, a re, a mi
fa, so, la, ti, do not know when to stop. Twig
scratched arm map-- I want it tonal or sonic
on your harmony arms.

Hold something, the smallest souvenir (a freckle or fa).
Lose it.