The violence done, the wound spring Sprung, the burden of pleasing your Hunger, my hunger for the clarity of A sentence - it is for these reasons, Mother, that I, having wandered far, Still seek forgiveness every morning.

When silence falls, and as words Are blinded of meaning by A sudden flood, and as water of time Continues to tunnel into memory,

This finger, tracing these loops Of words, leaning forward Into the light from the window Falling across this postcard,

Remembers the nape of your Neck, that bone curving into A note of a song under a dark Curtain of hair, and calls out Your familiar & distant name.

[A] What do you have to do With them, clamped shut By rules of etiquette? Run Into the field where sun

Shines on the grass, and Mother awaits you with Her milk heavy breast.

Touch the earth with Your lips. Enjoy this Ecstatic gift given free!

[B] When we were born, There was so much Clarity in our eyes

That people walking Down the street used To bend over, and dip Their hands in that.

But now the mirrors are Scratched and peeling.

They no longer reflect The Face, and we are Hungry for that light Dance, which we recall.

[C] Searching for you, I have only polished This knife of intellect.

I have read many philosophers, Heard many wise men speak About you, tasted the wine of Beauty, wrote song and poetry.

Yet I find myself in the crib, Where I was at the beginning. And I am sick of being an infant.