I have tasted God, he tasted of sweet wine
and sandalwood, the deep forest you lay down
in the moss and twigs, scattered like finger-bones,
your spine ripped out, curved like a bow.
I couldn't find your heart, trembling
against the opened cage of your ribs,
under the gently speaking rustle,
leaves unfurling, the dance of sunlight
slinking between your vertebrae:
piccolo skims and birchskin shaves.
I fled. Your right shoulder blade beckoned still,
unfolding like the slow feathers of a wing,
your wrist flung out, palm
up, gasped my name,
but I could not stay, only
strained your skin with oleander tea,
drifted, drifted with the tumbleweed,
the blind breath of the wind:
and I had tasted God, birdsong on my tongue,
soaring, sweeping, sweet and free.