…he confesses to God, as the being nearest to him, his most secret thoughts, his deepest wishes, which he otherwise shrinks away from uttering. …Prayer is the self-division of man into two beings,–a dialogue of man with himself, with his heart….–Ludwig Feuerbach
Ah. Let my hands do for me. Let heart understand. Not a light-door, but sing. Wonder at the window or a dream
on its backside. A dream on its back, lengthening.
You understand trees. Or sound made through hair of pine. Catch. In teeth
Again I ask, morning, tell it
again. This morning, my hands did
my body. Took a train through deserts. You sought me, in wonder at the window, pressed
noses, ours, to reflection of heart, my song. Not a light.
Through the door! You said. Threw
your backside against me. Catch again.
This morning, my dream in script
of howls. My hands did this. To my body,
I said. Unhinge.
When I spoke to You it was secret, again,
I know. But follow
hands. Sage birds. Caught in windows. Beat to get out.
That’s your heart.
Last full moon, two nights ago, lengthening dream’s sage
birds from pine-strands.
You called it “my hair”
And morning did my hands to body-me
between light-doors, and You
unhinge birds to backside me into song, trains.
Let heart understand,
Let my hands, You love,
Ah, do my body,