the angel and the karman sage
High above the earth, the karman sage sits under a tree
Suspended in the air, with roots bare
And leaves bronchial, exhaling.
He is in the blue halo. He is hibernating.
Across from him, but at a considerable distance,
Sits an angel beneath a willow tree whose golden branches bend,
Each heavy end shakes dripping crystal honey on his tongue.
He is in the third heaven. He warms his wings in morning sun.
And so it was with sweetened words the angel woke the karman sage.
“Do you know that as you slept
Soft gossamer dreams swept down
In amber streams, in golden threads, which
Lay serene each cold and lonely bed?”
Serpentine, the branches slide across his incandescent teeth as he tips back his head.
The karman sage, whose own words, in reply,
Stumbled out through weary yawns and sighs,
But each burned brightly as they tumbled through the sky.
“The sunken men of my dreams reached out
With blackened hands but failed to hold
Your parabolic ambergold that touched the ground,
But, by force, detached bounds of earthly gravity.”
The meteoric words exhaled, his luminescent gaze begins to wake the gloaming sea.
The angel and the karman sage share firmament and aether.
As neither ages, their discourse swells and theories hail
On men who toil in hope of simpler hells.
The roots of their trees continue a slow descent
Disguised in empiric flexibility, as dogma dressed as common sense.
They tunnel through the mud and clay in quiet influence.
But while the sage and angel sleep, the trees stretch outworn arms
Up through the thinning air, slip past the light horizon
Observable and unobserved, past unmoved movers unaware,
That silently the leaves spread wide and drink the absence deep.