Divine Lips to Clay

What is this place that
calls me – arrests me – freezes me
in my frenzied,
in my harried
activity?

Something
inside of me knows
that this flurry of
importance:

starting this

building that

saving this

securing that

is simply not
enough; is simply
too much.

Deep
inside I want
this flesh to
know that it
lives in the sweep of

a pillar of fire

and under

a columned cloud.

I want my body to
sing or better yet to
whistle
as God
again puts divine lips
to clay and blows.

More Flesh, Please

Ideas alone will not suffice.

We need to work our jaws on wheat
as well as words. Notions knock
at the door of touch and
propositions plead
for a taste of oven’s bread.

Light not only enlightens but also
illumines truth bare: it declares
this sag, that scar, each war waged
on the flesh and by it too.

My body will not bear
embarrassingly barren platitudes.
It wants to push against flesh,
to delight in dill’s delicacy and lime’s tang.

I cannot live in a cloud.
I ache to awaken with
skin singing and taste buds weeping –
my body knowing pleasure,
knowing God, in the
flesh.