Incarnational Direction

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 3/25/08

Go down low, near to the polished stones,
Whose mountains the ant traverses feelingly.
Go down, and with the sticky tongues of loam,
Recount the mysteries of gouging rivers.
Go down to where the dust of silica glows
In nuggets as big as prehistoric birds,
Great feathered lizards carrying chunks of sunlight
Through skies that drum with thunderous premonitions —
Wing-whirr and whistles of drunken bliss and hunger,
Deep needs that feed barbarities of fruit trees,
And form this potency whose issuance
Can be as garbled as bark as slick as leaf.
Go down to where all things that are must rise,
Rise high, and higher, because they go so low,
Perceptions swarming like heavy, yellow drones
Into the intimate blossom of the sky,
The sky that climbs, in order to go down,
Gathering rain and time in flashing clouds,
Whose rivers of air carve rivers of polished stone,
Whose egg is scent that clings to all things known.
Go down into the body, go down low,
Where eyesight burns as dream, and all nerves hum
With electrical charges of ancient crudity,
As fine as silica, as vast as stars.
Go down, and there, in the very pit of Self,
Become not this nor that, not him nor her,
But it — THE IT — the insect of all insects,
The shell with a million feet that all go down.

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