“BWV”
by Brian Kubarycz

Thunder of sighs, lightning of unlearning from every tingle,
cloud arms of Father Sky encircling, crow wings throwing
the bill forward, day warrens made hectic, vipers joined
to form a single rod, Earth tolling mice into action; cleanse
with maple fire this instant, or open my own veins into den
air—my throat extensive, sounding doomwheres always, ever
singing, violently removing, first, this silence, then another.
As thick unguent rant tames nights so wild all azimuths seem
strict, even so, command amens to break from all integral
urns. Tell poets’ sons to sweep aside books written in soot
inks, patently worthless, gilt only at first glance, all reflection
dimming soon enough to grunge. There is no mirror. Star-
glazed, afloat on aether ponds always renewed, adrift amid
spheres but mediately visible, as witless as wide spans of
bridge asway between fog-troubled ridges; what winds can
this new breed endure, gazing on as history carves its sig-
nature before wet eyes not yet inured to cruelest beauty?
What trunks can bear the mark?  Leaves whither, white pith
hardens into parchment, radix crinkles into twine. O Oversoul,
intrude. Infuse with new light this cold ġéolworld. Make ritual
unravel. Let live ears hear clan-whispered myths, now hissed
openly until all fully ghostless. Bruise us, use us otherwise,
mud creatures of no mother, pale froth roiled on dark waters
of theogeny. Toll every passion from the bell of us, northern
gales your hand and hammer. Ring from us deepest knells we
quake to hear.  The mouth tugs after milk until it learns to utter
chains of deaths, warble on the limb of intellect. Let insults
from the body rouse mouth skyward, without muse and crying
out, its opus walled no more. Draw now your awful bow. We stand
listening, this morning, for your bold audacious tuba horn—your
lone unbroken note, rude world to awaken, sole earth to expire.