Eschatological Regression Poem by Marieta Maglas

Right on the trellis of the house
made of reeds, she hears
the steps of the time. The woman feels the seeds
of grievance growing
in the immortality
of her soul to bleed. She kneels
in the booming green
like a screamin' child. The sun looks
so wild in that phenomenal
realm. As floods o' faith
are the clouds that breeze to catch

the angels' wings. The man thinks he is

a believer of the rise. He ingests the existence
of God as he ingests His words, nor does he feel
their sweetness. The woman

is dressed in that honest submissiveness
ripped
by the freedom of her will. A few

colored bumble bees touch
the sunflowers' lips. A pulsing core
has the full bloom of the sun to
spread its seeds. Drops of a new divine
love are falling down

over all souls. In the eye
of the man, there is nothing of her nudity,
which is not typical of a mother. She dances
this love
while tryin' not to break
the inner things. Their thoughts are
like the quartz crystal inside

an orgonite pyramid to awaken them. The naked hands

of the destiny become their boat. The man
paddles in the sea of life
beyond the bounds of sense, while
forcing himself to see
the fundamental distinction
between sensibility and understanding. The sky is like

a convex mirror or a concave lens to
diverge the light. The yellow

of the sun does not heat

the screamin' and growing green. There is
a human reification needing
an eschatological regression.

Poem by Marieta Maglas