History has been her dream breath
while she tossed and turned the veils in sleep.
The goddess of pearls in darkness
wears a necklace of falling stars.

Planet bound, revolutions spun
solar dust into lizard cells,
chopped the gene strand
into persons who do
a circus of heartaches and memories:
the lineage of bone, skin, and hair
passing from earth to air to flames ...

Forget the old future.

Though the world was made of virgin poems
who's figures dance now like shadow snakes
upon the temple of city walls,
those heart sluts are coiled with original tears
ready to bless the wounds inside of you.

Your hearts ride to them like stallions
teeming with a thousand other pregnant horses
over fragrant crests upon tomorrow:
the seed relics of an ancient, thunderous stride.

So moves the primal force thought
wound into the womb bomb of time.
Wet births splash little pains and bigger joys,
an ocean of breathing fishes
swimming thru each other's eyes,
looking thru something like water:
the liquid we drank ...

We who are thirsty as all gods.

We who pour our volumes of soul
into the cups of little mouths.

Into the eyes that behold
the glistening arch of sky.