The Small Steps toward Ascension
Heaven is a sandbox.
Shovel such grains. Malleable, malleable:
A castle scooped compels the pulse of tides…
How each beat overcomes us, color flooding &
that cascade dazzles…
Scrying, your hands, warm as settled rain water,
well through my system. I'm contained
content as a barrel.
Are our arms merely liquid?
Their dancing is jazz crazy.
To a cemetery, with you I move &
there we make love.
Is it morbid? Profane?
The quiet pines sigh, outride, erase anger, the very
flux of those rhythms which could make us
seem foes.
Tonight, familiar as children
in our own private play yard,
innocence prevails, innocence, a skin
ocean salvaging, salvaging sensuous,
the glory, the tenderness.
Ballast balanced on waves, waves
rocking, I never heard of the word sin
& this is an allegory.
A resident of NY, Stephen Mead is an Outsider multi-media artist and writer. Since the 1990s he's been grateful to many editors for publishing his work in print zines and eventually online. He is also grateful to have managed to keep various day jobs for the Health Insurance. In 2014 he began a webpage to gather various links to his published poetry in one place,