Here in this promiscuous country

where all things separate blend

in one harmonious medley

of joy without an end.

Where the angels stink with forever

and flop on their backs like whores,

where love flows in through the windows,

love floods under the doors.

Where nothing turns into nothing,

where being must always be,

and pathways leading to pathways

lead back to eternity.

Where jackals, crows roam the highways

doing each day's good deeds,

and neighbor crowds on neighbor

tending his neighbor's needs.

Though I crouch like a stone I am melted

in rivers of loving tears.

Though I run like a star I am gathered

into my own light years.

Where are you, lost archangel,

with your furnace world of fire

in whose flames you die--and arise--

and die--in endless desire?

 Copyright 2010-2012 Paul Petrie