Alexander Levering Kern
First comes the cry “Pig Pile!” and then
they tumble like teenagers’ bodies in
a playful scrum at summer camp:
words made electric, words made alive.
Word upon word upon word upon word
limbs flailing, exuberant
a veritable cacophony, no sense only sound.
Unbidden, this descent of fiery tongues.
The tower of Babel turns to dust.
Fresh words on paper squeal and grunt
elbows just out of reach.
Metaphors mix like jambalaya,
soup with a taste of bouillabaisse.
How I long for the freedom
of a cool clear line:
a depth charge in the reservoir,
ferns waving peace flags beside the path.
How I long to hear nothing but the woodthrush song,
to fast from words like the desert monks
or the scarlet hush of the chapel at dusk.
How I long for advent, to begin again,
to trust the eye that waits in silence
a gracious gaze, a word made flesh