Jewels of Jasmine

Jewels of Jasmine

February here is oiled in a kind of felt and palpable grace,
the charming taste of a vague promise,
owls, nightingales and omens.
In different times and certain places
words are an act of faith,
oh the noblest desire is a tongue of fire.

This is no sermon to Pharisees,
a numbness unto death,
a cock crowing,
or a bowl of desire to fatten the devil.
'Tis a mute passion,
an embroidered covenant,
the nearness, the lingering,
there are flowers in these letters.

Perhaps it is not crucial what sights what seasons,
peel on, peel on,
but one kicks and prays, nothing special.
"Ah 'tis given to man to make sense out of  things,
the death of chaos is....confusing."
As I couldn't see it rained,
it rained, and I listened.

Some days I think I can abide more,
and a smaller piece will make me whole,
but there's no handle on that door,
and inside, just sand, and maybe coal,
yet some stay a bit longer
as faith in words grows stronger.
I shake my head, dust, nightingales on a fig,
I bow, gold, there's no more less to dig.
Even blank books talk back,
letterboxes of the absurd,
of the serenade of a hanging fool and his denial of doubts,
coin tosses and apophenia,
words, empty, too frail to hold what they mean.

Yet selflessly forgotten,
here you left beads, blessings and a question,
what is the question?
Take my finger,
let me see,
care to say,
yes, care to say,
is this day gone?
Sailor and surfaced, pearls earned,
I always find your face turned,
and hold my gravel-tongue a little nearer,
linger uncertainly, as I would before a mirror.
That yet you lend me a fulfilled sight,
same-sought through rude thorns and fright,
shatters my eyes, the two thieves,
and trembling like glass, I frighten your leaves.