There’s No Place the White Clouds Can’t Go
Nowhere the plumage of doves and angels
over the dusty stairways of the Ancient City.
The Moorish tiles spell
as always, the name of God
in letters of fire,
in the shade of blue that is exactly your eyes after love.
I know both those loves.
They take wing inside me,
as if I were an invented city
and you had designed the streets.
I am all plaza and gazebo, 100% zocalo
in long silks spin in an ecstasy of Godfire.
That is how it is entirely.
Just like that.
Ajah, Ajah, –
Come to me as if you are me
and I will come to you
Every alley, every sidewalk
crack is breathing in enormous broken joy
You know we have come at last home
because we can’t see anything here
that is not already the Beloved.
Love with its featherweight measure
With its a e i o u
With its why of the cry of the falcon, of the beloved in the dark,
the dredged riverbottom of bedtalk.
Love with its calling from centuries,
with its clock of barely moving hands in the plaza of Perugia,
Love with its tiny steps
and kimonos sleeves wet with walking in the morning garden.
Love with its capacity for rhyme
And drift. Love with its backward glance
And endless coffee.
Love with its heat lightening and all night itch
Love with its red red wine
and bad driving, hillsides of pine and honeysuckle tango.
Love with its stone Buddha
in the almond scented light.
Love with its too long sentences and fierce electric.
Love with its armchairs of desire, and groceries of tomatoes, fresh basil,
garlic and olives. Love with its redundancy of salad and lack of pizza.
Love with its piano teeth, and islands of soft winds,
the Southern Cross at midnight, and mangos mangos mangos.
Love with its dire relationship to roses and thirst
Love with its Catalpa trees and unfought wars
Love with its chrysanthemum eyes and velvet skin
with its leopard eyes and slow discovery of other music.
Love, o love with its Rothko eyes, and Brancusi hands
And vintner’s tongue and champagne tongue.
Love, thief and scholar,
giver and gift.
The dreaming we leave behind at the moist blue end,
the dream we wake from, tender, each morning.
Thanking Andre Breton, for Free Union….
Editor: Hayley Samuelson
Judyth Hill is a poet, teacher, author, living wildly as ever, on our bougainvillea bejeweled ranchito, Simple Choice Farm, just outside San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. She has published 6 poetry collections, innumerable magazine articles, & wrote the hitthe-Bigtime poem: Wage Peace (it’s right here in elephant journal!)and takes writers & foodies all over the world on WildWriting Culinary adventures, www.eat-write-travel.com. Contact her at [email protected]
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