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