Mead

The orgasm that matters

is the one that lasts forever.

The others were just signs,

intimations of some 

darker elegance

at the center of whirling light.

Your crown explodes

and all the names pour out.

They become stars so far away

they are not yet created.

Nothing has a label now.

Thoughts dissolve in the bee-hum

of an ungleaned meadow

owned by no one.

Relics of rusted armor lie
in the clover, husks
of some forgotten battle

in your heart.

A helmet full of sod,
a breastplate shot 

with Autumn crocuses...

They teach you ancient tears.

Yet this a place for forgetting echoes.

Because nothing has a name

you navigate by fragrance,

guided from blossom to blossom

by a longing that foams over

the brim of your perfect contentment 

like mead, the honeyed wine 

that Jesus shared with Mary

from the cup of his gaze.

A kiss that is everywhere

needs no lips.
Not that the body becomes useless, 

but "I" no longer need 

to whisper "Thou."

Your veil is the wilderness,
the wedding of all things green,

consummated by weaving
Winter to Spring.
Anointed with the chrism 

of this breath,
you wear the whole vineyard

as a wreathe crown.

Was there ever a Bride,

a Bridegroom?
Or have they always been braided
like rays of sun and moon 

on the trellis of your missing rib?
In this entangled garden, 

vows are broken

every moment a moist bud bursts

into petals of fire.


Image: Flora, detail, Sandro Botticelli