A Sequence

a sequence

Mountainous still The fluid landscapes Unfold us to the sharpening winds— They bite the coast line edge Of our utter nudity.

We are In you Oh! Mother.

Yours alone the images To wear streaming in Your long dark hair; Streaming in the wind Of your insanely meaningful, And wonderous Photoplay. Yours alone the patterned Garments, tattered and worn, Bright and gay in the whirl, Of your mouthed madness.

Oh! Dancer of Divinity, Finger the edge Of our utter nudity— Fondle us deeply forever, In the sharpening winds Of the fluid landscapes.

Mountainous still, We are forever Unborn —in the arms Of you; The images Of your eternal Delight.