Within The Wind Washed Walls Of Prin

Cigarettes became stale after 30.
My bones were trees
          where smoke drifted among them

and I was a father with thickened arms,

lifting my child without my muscles shaking,
lifting like gravity does the tides.

Raising my child

like that “Thing” that moves

the objects of Space into place without tension.
Just like that “Thing” granted

the Universe space for creation.

As a young man,

I looked into mirrors at my starved physique.
But now I stand like oak

with squirrels pawing up me,

I do not shake.

With deer maidens grazing about me

on the newborn blades of Spring,

I shed my sap.

Is this to weep?

At night, I lay with the wind with you.
. . . Is this to weep?

Across the adobe walls of your thighs,
across the adobe walls of our home
the song of the wind is playing

and as you rise
from the sunlight breast-dew of ocean skins
(O sand dunes affirmed among wind!)

the statues shine in the City of Heaven.

I go on to tell someone later that day,
in a colorful and fruity way,
“I kissed my wife when she awoke this morning.

I'll do it again tomorrow.

Do you know what it means to enter that City
          each day?”

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