The Tear

THE TEAR


Let the curriers of beginnings find
in the core of their split logs
no frog in a private hell but
an image of the other side of sleep
inside of the tessaract no
child has danced the image
inside the actual tear that
seeps from the miraculous icon’s eye
in Russia somewhere with all the magics
where men die in snow slush of spring thaw
when all the belief systems lapse
in the spring flood, glee of spring rain
waking topological remorse.
A place I never was is terrible.
The denial of pubis and pelvis
of brain and middle ear
why can’t I let the little world know me
to split the stick and find the answer
Gnostic-perfect as a leering suitor
come to seduce me to her pleasure
a field full of people in this waterdrop.


Robert Kelly

Posted over on Charlotte Mandell

from MAY DAY: Poems 2003-2005