Comb the beach. Put an end
to this search. You have wisdom,
though you bury it. Nothing much
is found by weeping into sand.
There is a holy place. Where
all valuable things are song.
The nightingale tears its garments.
A sweet voice breathes sweat
of jasmine. Putrid like a funeral.
When you are gone- the silence
of a virgin.
All at once, I am the sea
of sound. Deep sound.
In that place of sand, I am
whiter than a bride, than winter,
than bleached grains of stone.
A trapped ornament of dew.
A bloodless magnolia.
I still remember
what night meant, the black
against the rim of random things.
I am not interested in existence
unless it shines. Wet eyes in darkness.
The way the moon glows on flesh.
The death of shadow.
You ask me "what have you hidden?"
Never realizing huge and glistening
nakedness is a silly way to hide.
Prayer continues. Waves repeat
themselves. Echo. Sing. Somewhere
on a stretch of beach, we are sacrificed.