From the Blue House

From the Blue House

At the door of the blue house you stand, where

the worm of truth eats away at the succulent rot

in the heart’s hollow, incising the chamber

from which it will be born again

one with the matter that fed its form

changing it into beauty dry and alive and flying.

The questions of fear that paint the windows
blood scarlet, red and burning the night,

are  met with full response, silenced in your look.

The loss and gain I think I balance

like enormous worlds

scamper off lightly like the bobbing asses of baboons

over the improbably purple grass

and the sun prepares to undress himself from the night sky.

For you, I give that blue Van Gogh night,

a unicorn and a tree, an eclipse and

black summer storms that follow the herds,

dust in your coffee, but no more no more

blood on your hands. Instead soft cries of brides 
in your ears and sleep that floats on your breast.

For me, an owl who is a songbird

wide eyes soaking in the light

wild cry tearing through the night,

a hunter of the darkness blown into the light

thrown into the air already flying.

For you and I, streetlights and a yellow moon,

a gold spoon and a crystal cup

conversations covered up by the songs from the bar

and the soldiers and the sailors leaving, kicking up sand.

Pictures breathing, animals sighing, colored lights

burning all night long.

Someday but not now, somewhere but not here--

some way I know, 
but not how--

I can’t say only if.

But knowing is all and enough.

True is what stands alone.

March 1991, revised and expanded, February 2011

Posted for One Shoot Sunday at the inimitable OneStopPoetry



Image: Haunted Granary, by Sean McCormick

Used with permission.