Sarah Sarai

Incorporeal

You sense a little
twist in the divine’s
rightish buttock or in Her
sense of a rightish buttock as
She and Herself are ideas
She concocted and you and I agreed
match circumstances

Those being corporeality of life
accounting for headaches when you
sleep with windows sealed and heat
cranked high thus

So for ourselves we concoct
buttocks also elbows that tingle
oh awful when banged in the
magical place

An idea only is She an
impulse defying all impulse
a start that is good without being
there ever beginning and having

In her fleshy and bodiless
spread of a grabbed ass
a no-see-um event or
on the foot’s sole an arrow
marked “sinus” which points

Unto the inexplicable notion
of Her smile as a force centrifugal
She created or whimmed
into life so we’d wander toward
the absolutely amazingness
of She Herself forming such
a thing as pine boughs shaken
by burning cold winds when
we’re all alone and looking up

Remorse

When he lumbered in the way of men
who use their hands to till earth,
he knocked a rough doorway
and sobbed for unfairness and
the slaying.  Dull, trembling,
he threw on three pelts against
a desert night, and feared heaven’s
white stars.  We’ve all killed our brother. 

The dead roam through us. 
We toss beneath old gods’ blazing navigation. 
Cain?  It’s morning.  He bites a sweet seedy fig.

Birth is the Last Exit

Return: 
It means answer
it means summary
it means account. 
Down the elastic passage
to a life too elastic
to control.  Soon a wisp
up white tunnel glowing. 

In Madison Square
greens on a wavelength
with browns arranged
by orders of sobering
joy—the squirrel’s
disregard for mortality
as she darts seeking and
sequestering so tomorrow
is not empty so today
is well-spent in late
autumn’s sentient light.