When we reached your lowest point thinking we could go no
lower
I saw things.
Two fists
a dying dead body
and burnt out wicks
a dead dying body between two fists
holding empty candlesticks
birds refusing to sing to us anymore
save ‘what for’ and ‘what for’
I heard the scales go out of tune
I saw the Sea of Nooun curl back in self-defense
sacred energy confined into semblance of a bordered fence
I took great offense to the rise
and fall
of see-saw marble game tug-of-wars and wailing walls
and that’s not all
I saw.
When I could look no more, my eyes split in two
I moved away from your dying shore
towards Esperanza sitting on a nearby hill
she held herself real still beyond Semitic semantics
of hate
her fingers etching out the figure eight on your flayed back
muttering ‘what for’ and ‘what for’
When I thought I could not go any lower
there was a big bang in my head
so I went to sit with Esperanza instead
her braids come undone in the dying light
we listened to the harmony a simpler tune
another song of man
until we heard the rapture in the span
of Rachmaninoff’s hands
We swayed beside forgotten wells
dried ducts abstracted into stone
somewhere John stood with us too
his Baptist eyes towards Bethlehem
and were not alone three
backs turned from shores of men
to watch the sinking
sun
curving between sea and sea
never meeting in any degree of difference
still we sit on swelled crests of waves
waiting for bladed hills to peak and roll apart
and be saved
to mend this rent
while John, dear John, who’s come with open hands
to take a stand with us for a new start
sings ‘he is coming’ and ‘he is coming.’
Perception Point 