COMMUNION
Black are the waters, black. A lyre
is meanwhile susurrating (hewn)
as the Waves come now-&-now retire
from the soiled minuscule lagoon
costumed in a darkling attire
of whisking shades 74
--This picayune
World outside hunger & desire
waft'd by that soft bird Halcyon
while in the Sea's mammonish Ire
(that same sleeping Ancient which)
impregnated on innocent Earth man's
... whereupon
the bases of being express
th'basic Ethics, consummating
in Perfection, cultureless
without love, yet without hating,
without Sense, without some blind
Belief annihilating
th'faith needed upon its own kind:
Serene, dispassionate, composed,
aroused... Searching to be confined,
combined, disjoined, set free & closed
by the male Sea opening birth--
... There are uncommon trees (tossed
here & there) feeding upon earth
choked to captivity by grass-
slaves to the tillage's worth
... clouds of scavenging crabs
polishing over th'beach, dissolving into
the solid sand at the least approach of anyone
What chance has Spring? against the All-leveling
which is spending eternity searching for cracks
but infinite birthing: th'beach forever ceding,
as it was ever & is
... to Man, to the waves'
way, now in this-&-that constant crevasse
putting their points (with softly rolling
hands) caressing green carpets of
color-screams which in dismay
there slowly oscillate softly, unheard, unseen,
half-choked by that smothering (be!)
strangling with hard hands: incarnadine
prime stalks & pedicels which although free
from the dirt-waters' tegument
wave hopelessly for help (from me!):
& although th'Wind's strong: Its corpulent
insistence builds but stilled waves of minute
mass in this all-mind environment...
Soil's too firmly held to the root
of the weeds' hunger: All of it will die
Imagination turns blind, insensible, mute,
becoming, at last, the very whereby
wondering WHY the Wind has not
eaten away the leaning of
the trees, the piled-up trash, the rot...
and married the fresh Virgin Waters
(hidden here) with The Old Sea...