The Second Coming
The second coming is a cycle of waking up probe
Until you don’t, of reaching to an innate hope,
Of winging on its astonishing workabilities in sum;
A daily glide of turning our faces to the unwearied sun
Pushing it down the rimming horizon of our eyes
While darkness stretches out, hush murmuring wise
With your heart, which flows out old rumors of verbs
Of new schemes exciting the puppeteer nerves
To create visions of drinking the sun until transfigured
To grow all that nectars, mocha, or licorice root giggled
For sweet tea, to bask in the white-sand, ocean-blue,
Palm-green lit weather, while somnambulistic love ooh
Brims and spills as titillating samba―rushing, slowing,
Then rushing―such ways to a florid desire moaning.
It’s how hearing holds root first; the first coming ordered
By the nourishing umbilical cord stemming a bud forward
To an astrolight that dares in its truth, nothing less,
Anything more is the manifestation of it, yes―
The evergreen abundance, the omnipotent billions of us,
In its flowering fragility and tenacity of descendants’ struts.
