1.14.2013 For R.S.

I wish I could take your sad 
head in both hands and plant it
in the ground next to the wildflowers
 
that do not toil or spin and beneath the
moon where the night-things move
about in their night-clothes of furs

rearranging things, reshaping the
earth while the human race shuffles
along on its blind mission

and your head now brown and
dirty as a coconut, beautiful as a fat
acorn there in the groin-warm earth
 
would take its time under the moon
and sun and the stars that mark
the little fires of the sky-people

who are blessing you, us
who are praying to your head
there in the earth, who are sending

angels in the shape of moths with
limited but tender vocabularies
each one repeating,

Peace to your beautiful  face,
Peace to your beautiful face.