December Heat
What singed griffin feathers
make
and un-make me
when I enter the forest of my dreams at night?
Tigers, tigers!
Disguised as red silk finely woven Persian arabesques
jacaranda tree petals tease the burnt grass.
What does this Kalika-esque blood profusion prophecy?
A magus is always a sacrifice.
A poet is nailed to his own soteriological
tree arc of ink and despair.
O dulcet breeze and cricket song,
God is far and we are the next best thing.
Let the white sun fall to pieces like shattered glass.
Panthers in my dreams, hear me, hear me.
Lap up all my blood platelets and unpeel my skin
before the monsoon comes in January
to turn the world into
a prehistoric emerald shrine.
tropical, sun, december, monsoon, jacaranda, nature, tree, poet, god
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