Old poem, New version.

THE FIRST GOSPEL
B-Bop Solo #1

Some days,
the rain burns.
At the center
of the burn,
there is a cry
without end,
the why of whatever
is suffered.
Isn’t the ‘I’
a pupil
of affliction,
dilating
in darkness?
Is the 'I' lashed?
Is something like skin broken,
the opening jagged,
groaning like a mouth?

At the center
of all cries,
an eye.
In the core
of the eye,
an Iris.
At the end
of its stem,
a serrated slash.
In the mouth
of the slash,
beads of blood.
In these tears
of blood,
a saltiness.
The salt

crystallizes
into a song.
This hymn

is a hinge,
and in its arc
something like
a door
opens.