Immobile form covered head to foot,
Entombed in cheap gray blankets,
Covered by shadows of the night,
A distant lamp flickering dim,
The sleep of soured smells and grime,
Alone upon the city sidewalk;
And you still want to know why I
Believe that drink should never touch
The lips of man.
Malodorous sign, unhappy blend
Of man and machine, the friendless friend
Where face and frown are all that’s seen,
The outward show of primp and preen,
Perspective never beyond an arm,
The closer click of vanity’s harm;
The polished mirror the ancients prized
Gives way to pixels undisguised.
I say to you — of water and Spirit
You must be born — of yours no merit.
The way is strait, and few there be
That find the gate to the living tree.
I say again — verily, verily —
You must be saved — narrowly, narrowly!
The world unfolds, a leaf writ large,
A birth of space for eyes to behold,
Its tender shoots of infant green,
In timely growth, from room to room,
An opening, spreading splash of tones,
Invitation to touch and feel,
Become and, in becoming, live.