so don't stop for prayers at the church of god's mother
just catch the fleeting vision rooted
in the hands of women
who touched your face and hair
dug for springs among the stones
kept doors open from dawn to dusk
measuring their passion in large clay pitchers with
water, wine, and oil gliding between the orchards
and the cemeteries
dreams languishing in bosoms of sea anemones
until dark
when they lay in the dimness of paraffin lamps
maternal pelvis sounding
in the ceilings triumphal arch
frail epiphany radiant in momentary conflagration
the gift of incarnation
January 2005
