Stephen Mead

Pilgrim Tide

Lay down in green.  This mist will reveal everything-----
Here, the steam from dew with flesh an archipelago
under all that opalescence. 

Wet heat & the matted hairs breathe air one with that white swirl
curling into another.

Such tales spirits spin, telling the slightest wind it is still a festival alone.

So solitary the grand waves sweep now as albatross buoys,
now as albino Seraphs at vespers.

Light as feathers, as leaves of books, their hands clasp over
yet do not touch.

God, what vast hovering goes on all around,
& we voyage it while lying this still, still as stems
in condensed crystal walls.

Now petals evaporate.  Now stamens drift out, an ocean summoned
unto us, summoned unto then ushered out-----
filigree to filigree even more invisible from this pouring pitcher,
this abounding sky-pasture of love's honey-milk.