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The groin is connected to the heart
To start. And joy and pain
Can find their way without a guide,
Can find the moon the world contains,
Can make a path from heart to brain,
Can carry oceans on a tide
Of feeling. Oh God, let me ride
That wave a little while.
A child of flowers can sail a sea
And land upon a tiny isle
With nothing but the urgent seed
Of lust. What can it feel of knowing?
What kind of chart within that curled
Loin can mirror God's mysterious plan,
Can bring forth from the babe a man
To begin and end and split and join
And rearrange the pieces of the world?
It's too big a question. Clearly it's a slowing
Without braking from the empty rush
Of breath from lung.
Perhaps the better question is, what kind of thrush
On a Nayarit morn can trill like that without God's tongue?
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