Prairie Fire

IV: Singing

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I chant, in a wheat-field, the psalms

of David, in their original, shepherdin­g, tongue:

his lips adulterous among breasts, but bound

by oath to the monogamy of carefully harped

meaning in song. Words on the page

shine like black olives in rain,

swell like persimmons, sway like pomegranat­es,

in voices down the cinnamon-mixed-with-salt

of the centuries. Their phrases ripen even

when pages are ripped out, shat on, scattered

as bleeding mattresses under raped women.

The words say, “We are that we are:

to try to hope by, whatever happens.”

Inarticula­te flames once licked them away,

wagging as furiously as rumours in an age

when rumours themselves are only rumoured.

Armies are always on the march; planets

orbit unerringly; buildings explode;

missiles, laser beams, hurled

stones, fall like the weather man’s

frequently predicted hail. Yet here, still:

a prayer book in my hands, lilacs

in spring, women’s dresses shining

with dew in the morning. Whatever was sung,

even centuries ago, was intended forever.

Day by day, a singer grows

around these words, the latest ring in the trunk

of a Tree of Song. Baritones who budded

before him circle, closer and closer,

around a heart-wood that rises, looking

for any light, sap lilting upwards.

The words won’t decide what happens to us,

only that we can sing, whatever does.

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