Praxis

Tipped upon other gods forehead
Plunged we were never had
Within the practice of our program
Departed ritual choking on those
People for an
Instant spirit of goodness
Curfew curtailing wondered him a guide
To the wanted might be welcome
Expression I arrived
The craftsman of our those which
Hear the word at least take out this
Hour of praxis this long whatever
Time to impression on us overburdened
By our dropped outside convulsion
Bursting forth walking beside you
Prepared as you were for the
Practice of his chords and his
Law stripped beyond our small
Room devoted as a boy the new
Wine is found to
Destroy whatever end described
Our grains of non-existence
Time repeated wisdom now and
Again.

Imbolc

Lean inspection
Sleet slid story dated
Prohibition of the
Fall see if you
Can travel in the
Wake of such circuits
To rejoice on
Imbolc
Restless ice still
Snow and mud sliding
Down the burning hill
Across the blanket sky
Premonition of the
Spring see if you
Can horn the lips of
Those that are asleep
To speak on Imbolc
Devour the finest of the
Wheat suffer fools no
Longer bought and
Sold light turning
Across a birch grove
See if you can stagger
The voice of my
Halfway sleep
Through the half-worn
Day to splash your milk
Upon the soil permissive
Cry the fallow charity
Of the swaddling
Lurching earth.