The Never Consumed Burning Bush

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem

Like people in the former century who

Had never seen until the surgeon’s knife

Removed their cataracts and saw the blue

Of heaven we take for granted; like the wife

A prince might pluck from poverty and stun

Her in his silk brocaded thrusting bed;

Like Christ-transported praying mystic nun

Pierced through her unknown womb, her wobbling head

In levitation; like a man who feels

His organ holy like a prophet as

It first is gripped by flesh as slick as eels

Inside a conquest, we know sacred jazz.

  The rhythm of that sweet fulfillment crammed

    With sacred meaning is what God has slammed.