Before
Before the ox treads on your tongue, say what is; how the numerous greens of this garden lean in, numinous. When it rains, you should be part, yearning with all five sense, too aware. But your soul is; your soul, which after keeping yourself to yourself for a matter of time, took up residence, and wanders the garden now; invisibly green. * Before the thistle hooks to your lip, utter a verb; the white flowers you planted pine with love for the gloaming; the gloaming itself seems in love with its name. The hour when things come as close to you as they dare, brushing your lips with their nouns. * Before the sear of the sun, the smear of the moon, are the same to you, what’s to be said? The sun on the lake and the moon on the lake are major, minor, music as light, and words modest, shy, shying away; bats skimming the water’s skin. * Before a stone stoppers your mouth, describe how this evening’s sky is slowly yawning the stars; and colour withdraws, joy In reverse; wiser. * Before the yellowy, bell-embellished air cannot be breathed, heard, seen, tell the time; a moment reaching for only you over the fields; trembling the wine in your glass. * Before just moss reads the braille of your dates, fill in the hyphen-space; linking the nothing before to the nothing that waits. * Before a spade shovels the latin dark, allow that the priest of a tree would have heard your wedding vows, had you knelt. * Before God is eternally not, say your prayers; credit their sweetly human powers. * Before the chrism’s thumbed on your brow, say what you meant to say before. * Before before the ox treads on your tongue. * * *