Fruit of the Vine and Work of Human Hands

                                                  [The World of Emanation]

          i. Kether

Circumstances seek us out, peaces wet clouds
                    sow on mounds of harvests dragons’ claws
cut from drought, scything brittle earth’s sighing mouth,
                    Cytherean bruises rus(t)ing dust
cerulean, rousing from tears renewal

          ii. Chokhmah

                    to rule over a potter’s field called
Oblivion by fall’s languishing legions
                    of dry bones trying to rise again,
defiant saints relinquishing nimbuses
                    paint turquoise ingots of marigold

          iii. Binah

straw their weeping draws through rose-raw scars to scorched
                    surface, casting down prayers their work gives
purpose, their blistered palms’ weeding of torched seed
                    wedding to pain what stains their thrice-bleached
stigmas retain, indelible art marked deep,

                                                  [The World of Creation]

          [xi. Daath

                    each burden dropped a nod to how hard
their hands toil, since their flesh cannot corrupt, soil
                    they till turns out a crop even once
damned, condemned sands transformed to glasses angels
                    descend to cleanse with breath tender lips

          iv. Chesed

cover with aloed kisses laid like canvas,
                    messages from above weary eyes
stretch into miracles, well-meaning æsthetes
                    scrying li(n)es their ascetic thighs spread,
artists contriving from clouded visions those

          v. Geburah

                    angels’ fingerprints their impressions
of heaven conflate with doctrine, parading
                    through desert highways dirt they mistake
for fruit, ba(i)ted by an unseen master whose
                    produce stand makes fish of fools, Jonahs

                                                  [The World of Formation]

          vi. Tiphareth

and Brendans rowing an ocean renegade
                    patrons rush in to reveal as land,
those opportunistic saints planting in hearts
                    what tools will guide their hands, clubs their souls
can use to rend from his command those spade-tongues

          vii. Netzach

                    demons demand good men dampen and
dart to dig in, deepening the Devil’s wounds
                    for them whose sins bu(r)y salvation,
good intentions the currency Hell trades in,
                    so, making of earth a compromise

          viii. Hod

neither mortal clay nor Olympic marble
                    can refuse, divine designers dive
at once into and through creation’s aching
                    acreage, forsaking pollution
and damage to their wings, foregoing shading

                                                  [The World of Action]

          ix. Yesod

                    the luminescence of holiness
from the neon coils of Lucifer, these sons
                    of thunder come crashing to call on
their fallen brothers, sisters, and travailing
                    mother, kamikazes piloting

          x. Malkuth

a project to enlighten this barren plot
                    darkened by shadows audiences
abandoned once tested, riotous authors
                    writing on their thoughts what consciences
centuries ago had been taught, and ought not

          [xii. Ain Soph

                    to have forgotten: that what one does
never dies, like a vineyard thwarted by thorns
                    from all sides, deeds survive their planter’s
demise, either choking those roots laid in life
                    or cultivating the finest wine.