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Morning: a polished knifeblade,
the smell of white camphor burning.
The sky tears his blue Sufi robe
deliberately in half.
Daylight Rumi drags his dark opposite
out of sight. A happy Turk comes in.
A grieving Hindu leaves.
The King of the Ethiopians goes.
Caesar arrives.
No one know how what changes,
changes,
One half of the planet is grass.
The other half grazing.
A pearl goes up for auction. No one has enough,
so the pearl buys itself.
We stand beside Noah and David and Rabia
and Jesus and Muhammed.
Quietness again lifts and planes out,
the blood in our heads gliding
in the sky of the brain.
Version by John Moyne & Coleman Barks
These Branching Moments
Copper Beech Press, 1988
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