The taste of asking
I went to the messenger
bent with the chant
of ragas and Lurian spheres
and a slave banjo railing
on one broken string
the instrument of the nameless.
I asked the Spanish poets
and the laureate of the left handed gods
filled with the books of the forest
and the petals of worker's song.
I prayed to the blue colours
the scratchweight of silver
and the luminous faerie
where the sphinx might rule the cat.
I asked the spiralling choirs,
the Holy Fool of Beginning
the honey bee councils
with a bible in their hands.
I entered the one room
where I was told there would be no hope
hush, hush, disappear into me
disappear...
I became the chant
of the monk's silver hammers
the hour hand chasing the minute
crooked in our ear,
the long night of the riddle
that tosses a faded dye.
And on the tin streets below
faith's night watch,
one stray angel
climbing the burning ladders,
and the quiet of the ragseller shouting
the minion of one breath.