Not yet lost, but rising,
as corona of sun lifts
above blue marble of earth,
seen from the hatch sailing
round and round the days
and nights of exile. Here,
in the body’s ground of breath,
this now, jasmine blossoms
sing the moon’s resurrection,
bring each thing back into
the heart, old garden
tended to and mended over,
refusing banishment of beauty,
or truth. For truth be told,
without blinking an eye,
without flinching a muscle:
goodness doesn’t last
and can be sequestered,
sold for less than 30 pieces
of gold. It's the only thing cannot
be embellished with parakeets
or prophets. Look into my eye,
behold:
death is rising
radiant from the loam.