Hermit haiku set, vers. 2

(Dedicated to Ganesh)


The bed is silken,
wide and cold; Life's libretto
moth-eaten and old

yet I clasp clawed hands
in passionate prayer as
if I were Atlas

Ra's rays light my halls
where rapt I read with new eyes
the same worn old books

women come with crosses
and bread and olive oil, strong hands
and wheels of motion

weeds in the garden
dig in like wild, thorn-leafed flies
soon to buzz their last

the Grecian brick wall
takes touch from elvish painters
of glowing wet moss

my days are like jazz
or hymns: horns and scraps hemmed as
one bizarre garment

I send flowers for births,
and write letters like Voltaire,
baring my beat soul