Poetry from a Gebserian John Kadela
Borrowed Time The Book is laid open upon the table its pages palimpsests of multiple tales, written in the manner as the ox plows, or grasses standing yoked and girdled, houses with doors flung, roof inclined toward heaven, hands unfolded as an open prayer book, arched buttresses and spiral stairs of your going and coming, the way a shadow is the hollow of the wood, a candle lit in the temple sanctuary, the brush stroke as sure a hummingbird's flutter, the way a deva lights a pinion pine. The Book is laid open on your lap, its stories made of "subtle electric fires" borrowed from the mind of God, inscriptions made in the flesh of space and time, where art is made physic among columned light, spiraled hands moving right and left, golden white fire silently crackles as your scanning eyes, for there in folds are dimensional waves, an interweaving of a tale Unknown. Now we are the dancing grass, oracles made of invisible winds passing through houses that have not–yet been, a laughter of a home on a distant hill, the flash of light in the midnight blue dreaming, we are the holiness of knowing that what is read is who is reading. A wave makes landfall.
