They can tell me the soul rises to its perch,
wing for mouth claw for hand cloud for skin.
They can say “I heard my father’s voice last evening
sing like rain poured into a living ear . . .”
They can invent the white book using the black
and beat on the invisible doors beyond behind not here
and push through like the leaves droning.
They can sit with legs crossed in the holy silences
breathing until the universe runs home like a dog,
eternity for Thursday resurrection for Goodbye.
They can put the nakedness of children before war.
They can pray for the suffering whose tongues drown
and apologize and explain and draw me in
whispering “His fice holds the star the seed in the brow . . .”
Meanwhile I have heard stones cracking in the eyes
of a teacher, bees entering a lawyer’s throat,
the cup’s smooth narrow lips trying
to communicate with the housewife’s boredom.
Meanwhile the soul prepares entrances for the crow,
exits for the dust, flesh for the heaven of kings.
© Stephen Berg