By thistle–light the bedroom glows.
A thought of home inside the bone.
Ocean cave of open mouth.
Love herself rides a horse through the ocean.
Wisdom lays down in bed to read
An epic poem shooting arrows at waves.
This thistle is the phosphorous ideal:
Erotic hum of the mind’s silent um,
Rough breath that is the letter H
The ancient grammars occasionally deny.
For centuries grammar denies Love herself
Rides her horse across the ocean.
Wisdom sleeps in a cave and dreams
There is a poem yet to be written named Home.
The healer is searching for a wound.
The sea the sea. The bone the bone.
Both are inside me when I read the words.
The book lends my life from the library
Or my life is the book on loan.