Speak love. Not airy wanderings,
nor underground tunnelings,
but passages leading to light.
Envision us, tower to swaying tower,
how we lose connection as the years
turn inward. Recall our poverty.
Know that houses are woven
of spider thread when days are done,
that souls go faint without water.
Woe is ours, beloved, if the sword
of instinct twists in the breast,
and draws blood to no purpose.
Better the earth dry and eyes stare
horror, harpies pluck shored bones
for what nourishment exists,
than let the milk and honey of thought
become too exotic to be shared.
Filled pitchers are for tilting
and pouring. Tilt, love, slightly,
over the rim of thought on paths
of discovery. Talk with me.
Silence is for breaking when it poisons.
As are stone women and stone men.
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