Little magic to make the great kiss
I’d rather walk the bower
with the jewel bird
pinned to the tree with the tiniest claws
and the pruned
branches gathering like a congregation
awaiting the arrival of light
for I have not the courage
to enter the garden
and stand in the place of the Creator
where the thorns
gather within the cool bunker.
When they spill forth in surrection
I have small hands.
And little magic to make the great kiss
of fragrance.
Like every sin the purple
thistle has its own joy.
And it cannot be pulled out backwards.
A breach baby.
Chaos rearms and
life comes into the world
every this that way.
I guess
this is the real thing to praise.