The Sky Drips Like Honeycomb

The Sky Drips Like Honeycomb

(“But God now unveils these profound realities to us by the Spirit.” 1 Corinthians 2:10)

There are arms you cannot see,
ideas that seem like nonsense,
handy jargon always out of context.

I once imagined everything and then
was hemmed in by corners higher than
sight for me.
But the walls, now translucent,
become clearer when words are replaced by
unexpected dreams
of universal dances like a day in August,
like old friends limping while the music laughs
like angels.

The sky drips like honeycomb for those who will see it.
The leaves shade us from recently honed blades that
try to explain the dangers of passive resistance.

Just once (I am lying, just all the time) would you please
join us
on the picnic grounds where children play,
where peaceful dragons give rides to anyone who
will believe?
Fainter than day we can leave our insistence behind
and roll down the grassy hills, tumble down the
embarcaderos to watch the seals do the backstroke.

I still find it difficult to
to write lyrics about imminent events.
Once I knew I foresaw them, or at least a prophet had.
Now it is merely the stream that cools my feet this moment,
this day, this space between parentheses.

The steamroller has been garaged in the shed;
it is the day of gathering, the day of feasting instead.