Father, do not come to me in voice or vision,
in paradox of bright confusion, but
pass by in the shadow of a fish
or the flicker of a leaf and lay
your wide, quick hand across my eyes
as a bird rests its wing upon the air.
Leave me here
orbited by my own shadow, still,
You the light----lithe, gliding,
Almost blue----and I,
the measured shape
of doubt and dust.
I will wait for you to snap
the sky into electric webs
and swell the green ground
into hills that leap and shiver
in the synapse of my prayer.
Lay me down and lick me
with the spittle of morning.
Sing me sticky, shorn, and sleek:
make me ineffable and true in moment
as the crowning head of a baby being born.
Father Mother seed caught fire and steaming
wriggle in the middle of me
like the worms and whistles
that swell the breast of a robin.