2016 12 15
The white owl with four wings crippled by hope
sleeps dreamless in the thunder-throbbing heart
of the girl who laughs to create the wind
for no reason that can be spelled with code.
She cuts her name into letters like shards
of glass from the window shattered by night
and gives each puzzle piece of her bruised heart
to anyone who refuses to ask.
Wrapped in cold sheets of aluminum foil,
her body pulses with rivers of blood
that imitate the owl who flies on wings
designed by the blind maker of mute clocks.
My body is mine, she cries to the sun
who weaves fabric of her soul with glass laws.
You cannot call me Genevieve, she smiles
at the television camera that beams
mask of her face on rays of shimmering light
ten thousand miles to the gold satellite.
The satellite flies circles around Earth
where people once thought angels danced on light,
and beams her face to television tubes
that glow blue in one hundred million homes.
My father Stephane reigned as king of dreams,
the swan frozen in the lake of desire,
the clown of spells crucified on the pole
that bears telephone wires from town to town.
My body is mine, she sings to the moon
who weaves atoms of her soul with silk wires.
Despite the golden dreams of the Word Clown
the ringing guitar sleeps in his blank heart,
till he wakes and cries, I forgot her name,
haunted by the blue void of ideal sky.
I heard him in the gloom of the cold church
speak the word flower, and the eternal flower
bloomed pure and perfect from oblivion,
given true shape by the light of his voice.
He gave me the concept of the true flower,
the ideal flower absent from all bouquets
of this ever-changing world where all flowers
live and die in unfolding flash of days.
My body is mine, she laughs to the air
that puffs structure of her soul with bright words.
My father Stephane gave me an owl heart
so we could fly together to the spheres
where angels move stars to create our world,
but we drifted lost in limitless void.
Copernicus shattered the crystal spheres
that Aristotle forged around our world,
and now we humans who suffer and die
are angels who change the shape of the world.
I sit by the bright hearth of glowing flames
and murmur names of every soul who lived
while counting every star that shines in heaven
till dawn recreates the real world we dream.
My body is mine, she howls to the sea
that waves ripples of her soul with clear drops.