The Last Wedding

October 23, 2017

If wind were blue
rushing like water through treetops,
through knee-grasses,

If I could more than glimpse it
on a scattering of trees, a primary blueness
streaking from the southwest.

Now the sky descends like a stream pouring
through the clouds, raw and original blue
rushing down to sweep across the face of its brother.

Along white sea cliffs,
through temples ruined surging,
the verb of life flows up the peopled mount

To the altar, waiting.
Lift the veil.
See at last the crystal wind;

the kiss, as deed embraces intention;
reality and appearance spinning
arm in arm in arm.

I unpurse a laughing stream of blue,
cutting through the haze to an opening,
in through the rock, bursting blue again.