Masturbation

From God it starts, from perfect thought, it starts

The slide down, touching stars and clouds,

Raining on our heads,

Seeping deep into the thing of our souls – love, anger, grief –

Until ejaculated into wheelbarrows,

Leaves, dead birds on the driveway.

A hundred conversations clatter – not conversations,

But monologues, soliloquies.

Some still dream of ghosts,

Of prophets spinning words into a judgment,

When judgment was permitted.

Some still dream of afternoons

In a wicked sun, dreaming

Of the ocean and remembering how to wish.