‘Homo sapiens,’ ‘homo faber’…yes, but, first of all, ‘homo adorans.'”
I: A Bowl of Fire
“For in that city there is neurosis in the air which the inhabitants mistake for energy.”
We make the air, and I remember when our city’s breeze first greeted me.
Spring had calculated out the warmth the summer would deliver:
warm air waking cold earth, light wind washing us forever.
Sudden coolness. Boat in fog. We
fall into some fiery season and the red leaf
evergreen now dying. Cold winds. So it’s time to ask
of Asherah the season. Cooling earth. We
ought to talk it over, love, again. We need
to think of making children,
where we’ll move, and where we’ll have
to raise them.
Our winds, they scatter these days, yours and mine. The to and fro. Now
when windows creak we ease around the harvest, loud
through portholes, quiet in the recess.
We become the ice block. If I’m honest
I can say I want a John Wayne. You
were good enough for spring and summer; you
become a stranger to
when we had hashed our freezing rite
the life that pours out now’s not quite
what we had chosen?
What an everlasting pain.
I think that Asherah speaks up, love. Consult your friends.
have told me. Doctor Phonebook chanted overtones
of necessary liberation – all eight syllables. Perhaps our harvest ends
right as it should. I think we may, I think we might
have found the next stage of our lives.