I, who dust (once
dust against his name), by his voice was,
by his mouth’s sound became.
I’ll sing to the singer of my soul.
Beautiful he calls me, me who,
if ever pure, headfirst too soon in murky pools
dove, and surfaced to find throat heavy
with mud and thick blood and white pieces of tooth.
I’ll singto the singer of my soul.
My chest was half-empty, half-
full of bitter rivers and cold stones.
He sang and through my ears—somehow;
I don’t know how—formed heart of flesh
and throne of solid gold inside (of me, who,
never pure, once wasn’t, once un-becoming
was), sang himself into my skin,
where waterflowed and blood warm for the first time -
quickening - I’ll sing to the singer of my soul.
From whose lips poured perfect hands
that wash my dirtcold nakedness of feet and touch
my head, declare me clean.
I’ll sing to this mad singer.
Could I keep under my tongue and behind
my teeth the running sweetness streaming
from silver scepter he swings so
well, gently inside me, sending his sounds
out to awaken the hollows
of body his sound formed?