Pentecost

Pentecost

Here, at the cusp of the end of all things
when costs are paid in derelict cut free
and cask unwinds to stave, by heart we watch
as Empire pulls out its own teeth for show
and Jerusalem—peace gone elseway—
returns to dusk between two hills. Shalim, shalim:
a ghost begins to gather bits of black earth to herself
from the unwatched wake of a slowing plow.
A past still to be born whispers form
to re-member up and eddy gust. Feathers
press down glad of lift and mutiny exhaled
between tooth and grotto’s now and then.
The southern steps, returned to consonant and grief,
all voweling gone to glade at the harvesting
of a grain that speaks—Ta'alu khaduni — beneath
the rubble of the tablets. There are worse decisions made
than dancing around a calf. Phosphorus burns
deeper than gold. It is not the first time
She has hovered, circling over wet limbs,
the breath between pangs closing fists
around rope tighter and tighter and men going
about the day as if night would never ever at this hour
crown its dark-furred head and—all ink returned
to soot and sap— howling from before,
sing stammer down to stay.