You drew me forth,
planted me,
then moved on
to another planet,
another row,
one in a field of red tulips
offered to the sky.
I found a rhythm in your words,
Lord of King James,
rhythm in the tide of tears
that rises from earth deep
and spills,
reckless rises fragrant golden oil
and red squandered blood
I swing in a censor
among singing stars.
