God is in the world

I would write for myself
After the thawing, in a gold book:
That’s how I know some semblance of Yeshua
still works through my veins. Urgent love to steep-
a honeyed ache would spread like sap on the tongue.
_
I’d remind that I am a pomegranate
bursting with seeds raining to the ground
pouring to the ground
Like money
Ambrose
A waterfall 
Gently laughs 
Through the outburst of fissures
Of rock and calcite In their time of year
_
But it’s thawing year. Open for
minnows to kiss and heat the lake’s surface,
and seal a capsule of heart in rock still pulsing
for each other like a lost well of whispered hymns-
Sustained- A long ache before two small wrists almost touch.

The black broth, the cream fissures

in particle trails like living sprites

foam in swirls to the crust of my goblet

in plumes of white steam, bellowing

and bathing my skin in ink

giving me breath and old ideas

this liquid flushes our bodies of impurities

while we sit in the thick, sticky dark

of twilight June.

We both have work today.