The wailing of an infant is the gospel of the world.
The world that spun around us
and the stars that still surround us used to be
plenty, the harvest, the horn—we were so tiny:
filled our world all tightly curled and growing
bigger before we were born…
SOLO
The torture of an oyster is the making of a pearl.
The wailing of a widow is the gospel of the world.
The sand grain's ultimatum, like a last note
held by Tatum, stands in the door-way,
half-turning—he's gone now—well, so long now:
Goodbye Mister Pork-Pie Hat: a song now—
grave to the cradle:
The torture of an oyster is the making of a pearl.
The wailing of an orphan is the gospel of the world.
The naked soul's unveiling, mostly labour,
seldom sailing seems to be sowing, then reaping
a blessing—yes, a blessing—
Though we're torn and sheared and shorn, we're rising:
dawn's gilded chalice, the horn.
© Dan Goorevitch 1990, 2007
